


Keep Him Safe

by ShadowBiscuit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Briefly mute Sam, First Kiss, First Time, Forced touching, Freaking traumatized Sam, Gentle Sex, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, Hurt Sam, Hypothermia, M/M, Murder, Near Death Experience, POV alternation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sam/OMCs rape, Self-Loathing, Slow recovery, Sneaky Sex, Some dark emotional crap, Spitroasting, Suicide Attempt, Top Dean, Torture, Unhygienic conditions, Violence, slight mutilation, trapped in the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowBiscuit/pseuds/ShadowBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was supposed to be a childish dare on a boring day turns into something much, much worse. In fact, it changes the boys' life forever.<br/>Dean just wanted to tease his little brother as always. He couldn't have known, he really couldn't...<br/>And Sam? He quickly came to the realization that, sometimes, possessing the skills to fight monsters just isn't enough when you're on your knees and bleeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run, Mousie, Run

   


Sighing for the umpteenth time, Sam walked down on the narrow dirt path with a sour, more than a little grumpy expression on his face, cursing himself. And his big brother. Right now, he could have been sipping on some hot cocoa while watching TV, maybe bury himself in one of the books he got for Christmas. They didn’t have that much money, so unfortunately he had to wait until special events to ask for some money from John, and while before they used to buy each other gifts, now they just got what they wanted themselves. Sometimes he missed the persistent feeling of excitement, that tiny bit of anticipation that had him constantly glancing at his brother, wondering what he got him, or smiling to himself with hope that Dean would like the bracelet Sam made with his own two hands, along with the CD he spent all of his allowance on.

But those things, the smaller joys and kind gestures, were all of the past. Nowadays there were barely any genuinely sweet or affectionate moments between them, let alone him and John. With Dean growing up and their dad deciding that they were old enough to be left alone for days while he went on particularly dangerous hunts where he couldn’t bring his boys with him, their small family kind of…drifted apart. They still loved each other—at least Sam hoped they did—but didn’t show it as often as they used to. Instead of a “good boy” and a hug, he got nods and orders from John. And instead of cuddles and smiles, he only got sneers, teasing remarks and more orders from Dean.

Just like today.

Their dad got a job in Portland, Oregon, something about a tribe of witches that were using some very interesting secret ingredients in their coffees they sold to unsuspecting costumers, turning them into ticking time bombs that could go rabid any moment. He’s already been gone for three days, leaving Sam and Dean with enough food and water to last for five, and this time, they weren’t forced to stay in a motel room. At first, Sam was pretty overjoyed. Instead of moldy walls, suspicious stains in the bathroom and that strange damp smell that somehow lingered in each and every motel they visited, he was met with fresh air and nature. The cabin John picked was obviously the cheapest one, rather run-down and with all the wooden furniture creaking, but it was still better than spending another night in a room with very thin walls, and very energetic neighbors. Later on, however, he realized that being so far away from civilization was only relaxing to him. To Dean, it was torture, his brother getting bored in record time and getting all sulky on him, complaining about the lack of chicks to hit on, bars to visit—with a fake ID, of course—and just the general absence of nightlife. The thick barrier of trees were driving him crazy, and he had to, just had to pick on Sam to get his daily fix of entertainment.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” he had said, grinning at Sam with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he placed the smaller egg carton on the counter.

“Your definition of fun doesn’t apply to me,” he’d told his brother in a completely disinterested tone, brow furrowing as he watched Dean pick up a few eggs from the carton. “You can go ahead and put those back, because I won’t do it. If you want to piss of some strangers, then by all means, do go ahead and do it; but don’t drag me into your mess.”

Dean had laughed at him, before throwing one of the eggs his way, Sam instinctively catching it. “We’re playing truth or dare, and you chose dare. Well, I dared you to egg that other cabin, and if you refuse, I’ll just have to give you a punishment dare. Something like opening the eggs above your head and leave them in your hair.”

“Gross.” Sam had shuddered unwittingly, pulling a face as he glanced down at the egg in his hands. “But my answer’s still no. And anyway, how is this supposed to be any fun? You won’t even be there. I could lie and say I did it while actually throwing the eggs against a tree instead of the cabin.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to take a picture,” Dean had stated and handed his phone over to Sam. Only his big brother had a phone, which always annoyed him, because he was already fourteen and he deserved to have one as well. “Just do it, Sam. Or are you a pussy now? Chickenshit that can’t even do one little prank without wetting his pants?”

Looking back on it now, Sam should have just hurled the egg right at his brother’s face and walked off. He shouldn’t have gotten so worked up over what the other said, since it was so obvious that he was just trying to rile him up, but unfortunately, in a fit of petty annoyance, Sam had grabbed the rest of the eggs from his brother, said something like Dean was the chickenshit here for sending him to do such childish stuff instead of doing it himself, then stomped out of the cabin.

That’s how he found himself balancing four eggs in his hands, two in each, while heading toward the other cabin. It was pretty far away, and they only knew of its existence because John got kind of lost while trying to find their cabin and walked past the place.

This was so stupid, Sam concluded. He looked around, but all he saw were the trees towering over him and the thin patches of grass blanketing the earth. He was all alone in the forest, couldn’t even hear any birds singing, the only sound reaching his ears being his dull footsteps and even breathing, along with the occasional gusts of wind that snatched at his chestnut hair, slightly mussing it, and sending cold chills down his spine and across his whole body. He couldn’t even pull his jacket together to shield his body from the icy weather, now wishing more than ever that he had a third hand, and while he knew it couldn’t be too cold as he couldn’t see his breath coming out as a smoky mist, it still felt like his blood was congealing and his bones were freezing and crackling.

Anyway, this situation sucked. He didn’t ask for it, was now really starting to regret his hasty decision of accepting Dean’s dare, and the closer he got to the other cabin, the worse he felt. At one point, he was quite certain he managed to get himself lost, since the dirt path decided to split into two parts, but thankfully the parts merged again some time later, and after a few more minutes of walking and quiet grumbling, Sam finally noticed something aside from the array of trees.

The lonesome cabin that stood in the middle of a small clearing looked more like a shack than anything, the white paint on the front door all but gone and the window seeming like it needed some fixing, what with being covered by what looked like a black aluminum foil. There was a carelessly laid down stone path leading to the shack, only about five feet long and with flat, dissimilar stones placed randomly next to each other, some barely even touching at all. Before the ramshackle cabin, to the left, emerged a stone well from the ground with a decaying wooden board on top of it, Sam fighting the urge to peek into it in case he’d get dragged in by some drowned little girl from a video tape.

He shook his head and focused on the matter at hand instead, stopping a good distance away from the shack and studying it for a long time, all the while being unable to shake the feeling of apprehension resulting in him standing in the clearing instead of the safe comfort of the trees. Waiting for any sign of life, he hugged the eggs to his chest without actually crushing them, then after a while of some more, silent nothing, he wondered if the place was maybe empty. That would’ve been the best case scenario, and as Sam allowed himself to take a few steps toward the desolate shack, he got more and more convinced that that was the case. No one would come out shouting at him, maybe waving a pitchfork. He could do his horrible deed in peace, egg the pitiful little shack, take a picture, then skip back to his brother with a cocky grin and laugh in his face, rubbing it in how the great Dean Winchester’s plan to make Sam’s life miserable failed.

Already grinning, he placed the eggs onto the ground, keeping one in his hand as he regarded his target intently, then pulled his arm back and threw the egg as hard as he could, aiming at the roof. Instead, the egg burst open against the wall, some of the shell sticking to it while the rest dropped to the ground, the yolk slowly trickling down the wood. Just in case his hypothesis was incorrect and there were people inside, Sam hurriedly picked up the rest of the eggs and hurled them against the shack, two more hitting the wall, while the last one broke against the aluminum before bouncing off it and meeting its final resting place on the hard ground.

He observed his work, satisfied with himself, then quickly took out Dean’s phone and snapped a picture of the egg covered shack. It didn’t turn out as good as he wanted it to, a bit blurry, so he raised the phone to take another one; but when he looked at the screen, the house wasn’t the only thing he saw in the device’s camera.

Three men appeared from the woods behind the shack, two of them holding rifles, the third empty-handed, and Sam couldn’t stop his gasp as he lowered the phone and gaped at the possible owners of the shack. Not good. They had weapons and he had nothing, and when they got to the front of the house and noticed the state it was in, Sam knew that a sorry wouldn’t cut it with these people.

“What the fuck?” someone exclaimed, their voice slightly slurred and carrying what you’d call a hillbilly accent, but Sam didn’t look back long enough to find out who the unpleasant voice belonged to, because he was already turning on his heel and running like it was “hunt the duck” day and he was the duck.

He knew he should have stayed in the goddamn cabin, he thought to himself as he darted past the trees, forgetting to take the dirt path back, but right now, he was panicking too much to care even if he got lost. Cursing under his breath when he heard shouting from behind him, he forced his legs to go faster, to run like the wind as he slalomed between trees while making sure not to trip like some complete idiot, already making up his mind that after this, he was going to beat the hell out of Dean.

“Come back here, you little cunt!” another voice bellowed, and shit, Sam really hoped they weren’t bringing the guns with themselves.

His heart was going out of control, pounding in his chest so loudly he could hear his pulse in his ears, along with his frantic pants as he kept running, and he could feel himself tiring. Stopping or slowing down wasn’t an option, though, especially since the furious yells were coming from much closer now, his persistent pursuers somehow catching up to him even though Sam was straining his limbs, forcing air into his lungs even as his side began hurting, even as he gritted his teeth, wishing he could be faster, just a little bit faster, please. His jacket flapped behind him, eyes slightly watering when the wind picked up and slammed right into his face, as if nature itself was trying to screw with him. He could hear them over his own rapid breathing and the sounds of branches snapping and leaves crunching under his feet, hear as they called after him, sounding more than a bit angry and dangerous, making Sam dread the moment they’d finally catch him. If they’d catch him, he had to remind himself, because he was not going to stop running. It hurt now, his damn legs felt like they were going to fall off and his side was stinging so much, as if getting stabbed over and over again with an icy dagger each time he inhaled, but it wasn’t like he could hide. The trees were too thin for that, but even if he’d somehow manage to pull it off, to stay still like a statue, the people chasing him were too close. They’d see him hide, could corner him so easily, and then probably beat him, or kill him. Or maybe both.

Why were they so goddamn furious, anyway? Sure, Sam egged their home, but normal people would have given up on running after him a long time ago. What the hell was driving his pursuers to keep going? He didn’t know, wasn’t even sure if he would’ve liked to find out, but even if he would have, Sam couldn’t get the chance to do so, as in the next moment, something hard connected with the back of his head, making him grunt in pain and stumble a little, then another thing hit his back, then head again, then whizzed past him and—

Were they throwing rocks at him?!

They weren’t big, thank god, but they were still rocks, and even when he ducked his head and tried to shield it with his hands, the projectile weapons still kept coming, at one point Sam pretty sure one of them broke his goddamn finger. He would’ve loved to shout some profanities, tell them to very kindly fuck off, but then chose to save the energy he could’ve used for talking for running faster instead. At least he really hoped he was going faster, because he seriously felt like he was seconds away from coughing up his lungs and just collapse from exhaustion, his whole body aching from all sorts of different kind of pain.

“Get the fuck back here already, you lil’ bitch!” the disembodied voice that he had begun calling Asshole number one shrieked. He sounded more feminine, voice somewhat higher pitched than the other’s and more nasal, and Sam guessed from that alone that the guy couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Asshole number two sounded like he was older, voice deeper but carrying a thicker accent. “We gon’ get you anyway, so stop runnin’!” he bawled, but Sam had no intention to stop, thank you very much. He only got a glimpse of the men when he first saw them, so he couldn’t quite put faces to the voices, but honestly, knowing how his chasers looked like wasn’t really one of his priorities.

Where was their cabin again? Oh god, Sam couldn’t remember. He had no idea which way he was going either, has been running blindly all this time, and the trees weren’t changing. Everything looked the same, as if he was stuck in an endless loop, the woods swallowing him up and trapping him in a living nightmare from which he could never escape from, forever a prisoner in this cage of trees. And his legs, god, his legs. They were wobbling under him. He didn’t know how long he’s been running, maybe only five minutes, maybe twenty, but either way his body couldn’t take it anymore no matter how much he forced himself to speed up, to just go and go until he collapsed, then keep going even after that.

Suddenly, just as he realized he had accidentally slowed down and was about to strain himself to keep going, he was grabbed by his collar and yanked back, and since his legs were pretty much noodles by then, Sam lost his balance and fell backwards onto his ass, groaning when he banged his head on the ground. He would have loved to just stay there, lie on the cold earth just a little while longer and catch his breath, but as soon as he noticed the two boys hovering over him with matching twisted grins plastered across their faces, his heart nearly jumped out of his chest and he immediately got up on his elbows, pushing himself into a sitting position before turning around and attempting to crawl away from the insane-looking boys. He didn’t get far, barely got a few feet away from them, and when he tried to stand up and go back to running like crazy, one of them landed such a brutal kick to his ribs that Sam slumped right back onto the ground with a sharp cry.

Then his hair was grabbed and yanked on until he was looking right into a pair of striking blue eyes in a freckled face. “Why, hello there,” the boy with the nasal voice drawled with broad smile, the putrid smell coming from his toothless mouth making Sam scrunch up his nose in disgust. Now that they were so close, he could get a better look at him, but he didn’t quite like what he saw. The boy was pale with a highlighted red flush across his face and neck, aforementioned face completely covered by darker, conspicuous freckles that were much uglier than Dean’s lighter ones. He had a buzz-cut that, along with his round face, helped bringing attention to the protruding ears sticking out from the sides of his head, and he was giving Sam a kind of look that didn’t suggest he belonged to some of your friendly neighbors.

“Let go,” he hissed, swatting at the hand keeping his hair in an iron grip, but all he managed to achieve with that was to get kicked in the ribs yet again.

He lay on the cold ground, teeth gritted and bared at the other boy standing next to him. This one, just as he thought, seemed older. Much older, between twenty and twenty-five, with a blond ponytail, the same blue eyes and pale, freckled face, and while he seemed to possess all his teeth, they were all yellow and rotten-looking, making for a rather repugnant sight when he grinned. “Let go? So you could run from us again?” he sneered, shaking his head. “No, no more of that shit. Naughty boys like yourself need to get punished.” He then looked at the other boy squatting in front of Sam, lips stretching further and twisting his grin into something inhuman. “Yo, Billy, what d’you say we teach this little bitch a lesson? Show him what happens when someone messes with us.”

The one named Billy nodded like one of those bobbleheads, before flashing a grin of his own to Sam, who could actually see into the boy’s mouth through the gaps between his teeth, and just ew. “Yeah, Robby. Good idea.”

Billy and Robby. What a duo. Also, instead of good, Sam was thinking along the lines of terrible idea, and he quickly scooted back on his hands and knees, before swiftly getting to his feet and continuing to slowly back away while keeping his eyes on the pair. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? It was just a stupid dare,” he explained with a forced smile and his hands held up in surrender. He wasn’t in any shape to keep running, which meant that next he’d have to choose fight instead of flight, and while he wouldn’t have minded knocking out the rest of Billy’s teeth, he would’ve still preferred getting out this situation without having to resort to violence. Beating people up was usually a last resort sort of thing, and he would’ve liked to believe that he had the capability to resolve this little problem with words only. “I really didn’t mean to anger you guys. You know what? I’ll just clean it up for you. It’s the least I can do, and then we can forget all about this.”

He gave them a hopeful look, but his proposition didn’t seem to interest them the least bit. They were unaffected by his peaceful smile that usually worked on most people, that smile freezing on Sam’s face when they once again began closing in on him.

“You hear that, Billy? He didn’t mean any of it, was forced to throw eggs at our home.”

“Yeah, Robby. And he also said he’ll clean it all up. How sweet of him.”

“Ah, but that’s not good. Not enough. Because he hurt our pride as well, and he can’t clean that up.”

“No, he can’t,” Billy stated with a snicker, before cracking his knuckles. “But since he’s feeling so sorry for what he did, he’ll let us do whatever we want to him as compensation.”

They looked like a pair of hungry hyenas as they neared him, making Sam realize that he really didn’t have a choice here. He could either fight or, since running with these maniacs on his tail wouldn’t get him anywhere, let them beat him up. The latter not even being an option worth considering, he remembered all the times he beat up bullies in school or sparred with his brother, imagined the two boys before him were monsters, the enemy, and then just before they reached him, Sam pounced.

A two versus one fight wasn’t too fair, especially since his adversaries were much taller and possibly stronger than him, but Sam was a hunter trained to be able to kill wendigos and vampires in the future, or the contrary, to block and dodge attacks coming his way, so ducking under the fist flying his way before throwing a punch at Billy’s stomach was the easiest thing in the world. The boy doubled over, cursing while trying to grab a hold of Sam, but he was too fast. He moved around the momentarily incapacitated boy and landed a brutal kick to the back of his knee, unfortunately only making him stumble instead of falling to the ground, and then he barely had time to notice the other boy who he had skillfully forgotten about before his face exploded in pain as he got suckerpunched. He staggered back, holding his nose which, perfect, was bleeding, then another piercing pain shot through him as Robby kneed him in the abdomen, then punched him again. Gasping for breath, Sam snarled at the jackass and retaliated by curling his fingers when the boy reached for him again, and clawed at his face like a rabid cat, hoping to gauge out an eyeball or two, but then an arm snaked around his throat from behind and squeezed. He got pulled away from the hissing boy, Billy having him in a firm headlock and keeping him in it even as Sam kicked and struggled, thrashed around in the other’s hold while sinking his nails in the flesh around his throat.

“Suddenly in the mood to fight, huh?” Robby said with a contemptuous sneer, walking up to him and then letting out a strangled howl when Sam kicked him right in the nuts as soon as he got close enough. He couldn’t do much aside from growling and glaring at the guy in front of him, as he was kind of in the middle of getting strangled by Billy, who he assumed was most probably the other one’s brother, if all those freckles were anything to go by. “Skank,” the boy—probably a man, but in Sam’s mind, he didn’t deserve to be referred to as one—spat, then gripped Sam’s jaw and did so again, literally spitting in his face, and it was all he could do not to shriek from utter disgust as the saliva slid down his cheek. “Think you’re gonna get away with this? Didn’t your parents teach you how to properly take a good beatin’? Little fuckin’ brat needs to learn discipline.” He let go of Sam before backhanding him, his wet cheek stinging, but not as much as his dignity; frustrated fury and indignation bubbling in him at his own helplessness, the humiliation and inability to fight back making him tremble in exasperation.

“Let’s take him home, Robby!” The alarmingly cheery voice of Billy had him digging his nails further into his clothed flesh, but when the hold around his throat tightened from it, Sam’s eyes bulged. He grabbed the forearm, trying to pull it away because he was getting dizzy, oh no, he was going to pass out, he didn’t want to pass out. “I want the bunny,” the boy continued, tugging at his hair. “Wanna keep him, never let him run away. Please, can I?”

“Sure thing. But we’re still punishing him. That’s what you’re supposed to do with bad pets,” Robby drawled, grin back on his face.

Billy giggled behind him. “Of course!”

Starting to panic a little, especially when he saw Robby lick his lips, Sam forced some hoarse, frail words of protest out of his mouth. “My dad will kill y-you if you dare—” he hissed, then got punched square in the jaw, instantly forgetting what the rest of the sentence was and just glad he didn’t bite his tongue off. Then he wasn’t so glad anymore, because the punches just kept coming, Robby’s fists connecting with his face over and over, like drumsticks beating a drum, until his ears were ringing and his knees buckled, arms hanging limply at his sides, and it wasn’t long before he lost consciousness, Sam embracing the dark and painless silence that came with it.

   



	2. Hunters Don't Cry

 

Sam dreamed of snowmen. He loved winter, loved how snow descended from the skies and covered the roads and rooftops in pure, sparkling white, making it seem like they were in Heaven, among the fluffy clouds. He used to play with Dean in the snow, make snow angels or have snowball fights, Sam not bothering with gloves even though afterward he always regretted it and felt like his fingers turned into ice-picks; however he never corrected his mistake because watching as the thousands of tiny snow crystals melted in his palm was still so worth the discomfort later.

Snow was something magical to him when he was a kid, and it didn’t really change much as he grew older; he just loved it in another way. As he slowly understood how the world worked, discovered how it was filled with evil and hate, with blood, he began to somehow appreciate snow. Be fascinated by it. He found it pure and innocent, saw it as something precious and unsullied, but also as something weak and passive, dirtied way too easily by the forces out of its control. Just like humans, he supposed. None of them are born evil—they come into this world the way snow is born from clouds, with innocence and a naïve, sincere acceptance, and depending on their surroundings, on where they land, they may either hold onto their purity or let it be snatched from them. Trampled upon. It’s never their decision and they don’t get a say in it, and even if they are cleaned, the dirt scraped away from the surface, nobody could ever get rid of all the stains that are now a core part of their being.

His dreams weren’t filled with these memories, though. They were full of laughter, with Dean destroying his snowman and Sam sneaking a fistful of snow in his brother’s clothes as payback, of rolling in the snow while having a childish wrestling match, and he could even feel the cold. Felt it against his back and cheek, felt it creep into his fingers and rest of the body, then Dean was suddenly throwing a huge amount of snow right in his face, making him sputter and cough, and it felt so real, so much like he was freezing and—

Sam’s eyes flew open and he immediately turned onto his side, coughing up the water that found its way past his lips and into his mouth. His whole head was drenched in it, water dripping from his chin and hair, and a full body shiver shook him as a stronger gust of wind hit him.

Damn, his face hurt. A lot. He hissed in pain as he patted the surely bruised skin, tasting blood on his tongue as he swallowed. His bottom lip was split, nose bleeding and, yep, probably fractured, and the area around his left eye was really bad, hurt a lot when he touched it, plus opening that eye was a bit difficult too. And he also had a fucking headache. Sam would have started whining and demand Dean to patch him up, but then had to realize that he wasn’t in the cabin, or with his brother, and that he had been brought back to the shack while unconscious. He was lying on the cool stone path leading to the house, and one look around his surroundings had his stomach twisting in unease and more than a little amount of dread as he noticed one of the two boys standing next to him, holding a bucket which presumably contained the water used to wake him.

“Slept well, pretty boy?” Robby asked with a condescending chuckle as he discarded the bucket, casually tossing it on the ground, then smirked down at him. “Oh, sorry. Not that pretty anymore.”

Sam snarled at him, which turned into a grimace because his lip stung. “What are you going to do? Beat me up?” He got on his elbows then in a sitting position, thankful these idiots forgot to tie him up, before glowering at the other. “You’re messing with the wrong person here. Once my dad hears about this, the police will have to use tweezers to gather your remains.”

Robby threw his head back as he emitted a hearty laugh. “Your dad? I think he’ll be more grateful to us than anything. Happy that someone finally got the guts to beat some manners in you.”

“Manners, yeah,” Sam scoffed. “Because kidnapping kids is such an honorable thing to do.”

“It is if it’s done for a good cause,” Robby pointed out like he was speaking truth, to what Sam rolled his eyes, then stopped halfway because his left eye has started swelling and it hurt.

“Is my sweetie awake?” Billy’s voice had him turning around where he sat on the ground, and he was pretty sure his heart stopped beating for a few seconds as he noticed the knife in the boy’s hand along with some sort of black, plastic toolbox in the other, which he carried as he walked out of the shack, with someone following him.

It was the third person he saw from the phone’s camera, this one way older than the boys. He had bushy eyebrows and a beard, a cap with some nest-like hair sticking out from under it, was only wearing a shirt and white shorts despite the weather, and had a cigarette hanging between his thin lips. Feeling a slight glimmer of hope, Sam watched as the man leaned against the doorway, exhaling a puff of smoke and meeting his pleading eyes, before looking at Robby. “Don’t let the bitch scream too loudly. I don’t want no cops showin’ up on my doorstep just coz you kids can’t make your toy behave,” he grunted out the order, blinking disinterestedly at Sam, and then just flicked his cigarette into the grass, stepped on it, and walked back inside the shack.

“Got it, dad!” the boys said in unison, before leering at him with wicked eyes.

Great. The whole family was filled with psychos. Sam swallowed hard around the lump forming in his throat as Billy set down the toolbox not far from him, then waved the knife with a smile. “You ruined our place,” he said, motioning at the eggs still sticking to the wooden walls with the knife, “so we’re gonna ruin your body in return.”

“You’re all crazy!” Sam snapped, scrambling to his feet with his heart beating so fast it threatened to leap out of his chest, just to get shoved back down and onto his knees by Robby. Furious, and really having enough of these two douche bags, he stood right back up, prepared to do something risky, just too fed up with this situation to care. He lunged for the knife, cut his palm a little when Billy slashed at him, but somehow, he managed to snatch it from him, immediately backing away while holding the blade out in front of him. “You’d both deserve to get chopped up to tiny little pieces, so you should feel lucky I’m not hurting you. But if you dare follow me, if you don’t leave me the hell alone, then I won’t hesitate to sink this knife in your hearts, got it?”

The boys exchanged a glance, then Billy crouched down, picked up a few more knives from the box, and then just threw them Sam’s way. He barely had time to get over his shock—because what kind of reaction was that?—before he was crying out in pain and flinching as some of the knives hit him, most grazing or bouncing off his body, however one stayed embedded in his thigh, distracting him long enough to get his own knife knocked out of his hand. He managed to pull out the one in his thigh seconds before Robby dragged him back and pushed him to the ground, Sam’s knees really aching now from all these damn falls, but before he could’ve scurried away like he did all this time, Billy placed some sort of wire around his neck, resulting in him freaking the hell out, even more desperate to get away. As soon as he tried, though, the wire only tightened around his throat, stilling any of Sam’s movement, his eyes wide as he curled his fingers around the wire and tugged at it; but again, as soon as he did, the thing bit into his skin and squeezed his throat stubbornly.

“Efficient little thing, isn’t it?” Robby said, nodding toward the wire which, now that Sam had stopped to look at it more thoroughly, was attached to something in the toolbox which was way out of his reach. “It’s a snare trap, and as you must’ve realized by now, the more you move around, the tighter it gets. So if you don’t wanna die, it’s best if you stay nice and still for us.”

“We’re hunters and have lotsa fun tools and traps to use on you if you misbehave, little bunny,” Billy chimed in, actually reaching out and petting Sam’s head with an idiotic smile on his face, causing him to immediately lean away then make a small sound when that stupid snare clenched around him even more.

He was on his hands and knees, shivering thanks to his wet hair, his whole face hurt, and now he was unable to move. Sam wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t dumb either, so he could recognize a dangerous situation, knew exactly when it was appropriate to panic and feel scared for his own wellbeing. And right now was one of those moments.

“Let me go,” he growled, might have felt as terror slowly seeped into his system and quickened his breathing, but he refused to let it show. It was John’s rule number one—never let your enemy know you’re scared. Never become the prey. “Stop this pathetic power play, or else as soon as I’m out of this thing, instead of granting you mercy, I’ll just pick up one of these knives and skin you myself.” He was bluffing, obviously. Sam couldn’t do such a thing even if he would somehow manage to get the upper hand. Murder, or torture, wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes, but these maniacs didn’t need to know that. He could play the bloodthirsty delinquent for them, in hopes of scaring them away, maybe change their minds on that whole ruining his body idea.

Or maybe not. “Aw, would you look at that. Bitch is all bark but no bite,” Robby said with a sneer as he ran a hand along Sam’s spine, causing him to shuddering in revulsion and a hint of fright. “You’re not going to get out of the snare,” he continued, eyes narrowing deviously. “You can’t. And here’s a spoiler for you.” He knelt down next to Sam, who hissed silently as his hair was grasped again, now his skull beginning to hurt too, then froze to an ice statue when Robby whispered in his ear, “The only time we’ll take it off…is when you’ve stopped breathing.”

That single sentence was enough to make him hold his breath, but he seriously doubted that the boy meant it that way. They were planning on killing him. His eyes widened and he gulped, the way his Adam’s apple grazed uncomfortably against the wire holding snugly onto his throat filling him with apprehension, and when Robby let go of his hair with a none-too-gentle push, Sam tensed his whole body, trying hard not to move and accidentally cause the snare to tighten. He was completely trapped, just like an animal. Rendered harmless in the clutches of the snare, and he momentarily wondered how many curious foxes and wolves, rabbits met their untimely deaths by getting too close and tempting fate.

He couldn’t do anything, he literally couldn’t or else he was going to get strangled, but he refused to just give up and die like this. “You’re seriously going to regret this,” he threatened lowly, glaring at both of them while staying completely motionless but on edge, ready to jump on any opportunity to free himself as soon as it presented itself.

“Why, whatcha gonna do? Glare us to death?” Billy jeered, before hooking a knife he’s been holding under Sam’s shirt and beginning to tear it away, slash at the fabric until it was ripping with a protesting, wounded sound that had him gasping in alarm, trying to ease away from the cold blade without actually moving too much, while grabbing at the knife. Instead of seizing it from the boy, he only managed to get his hand cut, but he didn’t let that stop him and he kept fighting back until a violent kick to his stomach had him crying out in tear-jerking pain.

He almost fell onto his elbows as his arms shook, body curling in on itself with his back bent, Sam fighting to block out the nauseating pain throbbing in his gut as he heaved with his eyes squeezed shut. Maybe he’d wake up. Maybe, if he kept his eyes closed long enough, the scenery around him would twist and shift, before disappearing and taking up his bed’s form. Then he’d wake up and tell Dean about this nightmare, scold him for being a jerk even in his dreams. Yes, all he needed to do was concentrate and all of this would be over, it’d be gone and he’ll be safe and warm. However upon opening his eyes, he felt like screaming in frustration, because he was simply in denial, still on his hands and knees like some pathetic loser, completely at these boys’ mercy as one of them cut away at his clothes, while the other hovered, laughing and helping remove the tattered mess of what was once a checkered flannel shirt after ridding him of his jacket.

And then his upper body was naked. Sam clenched his jaw, stopping his teeth from chattering, but he couldn’t stop the way his body trembled, the way he shivered relentlessly, the hair on his arms standing on end and goosebumps breaking out all across his skin caressed by the cool, biting air. “Look at him,” Robby said with a derisive chuckle as he gave a few hard pats to Sam’s back, then slid a hand to his ribs, squeezing at the exact spot he had received some harsh kicks and drawing a painful hiss from him. “All skin and bones, this kid. Bet he breaks easy like a stick.”

Feeling his face heat up in anger, Sam glowered at Robby, lips twisted in a feral snarl. “I might be skinny, but I could kick your ass if you wouldn’t be such cowards, feeling the need to team up on a _kid_ ,” he scoffed with a condescending look in his eyes, which earned himself a nick on his side from Billy’s knife.

“Bunnies aren’t supposed to talk back,” the boy chided him, poking his flesh with the pointy end of the blade and making him flinch a tiny bit each time the sharp tip pierced the outer layer of his skin. “I think we’re gonna have to shut yer pretty mouth up. What do you say, Robby?”

He looked at the other boy, watching with restless trepidation as his lips curled into a foreboding smirk hiding something wicked. “I say,” Robby drawled, clenching his hands into fists, “let’s.”

His heart sinking all the way to his stomach, where it got swallowed up by the abyss of thick, black, and despondent dismay, Sam barely had time to brace himself for the assault before the first blow knocked the air right out of his lungs. They kicked and punched him, many times nearly succeeding to kick his arms out from under him and making him fall, but he always managed to stay in his vulnerable and exposed position, not letting the snare do any more damage to his neck. However just because he wasn’t choking, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t in pain, as the rest of his body kept lighting up with it over and over again, abrupt and unforgiving pain bursting in his torso and legs as they used him as a punching bag. He didn’t cry, forbade himself from shedding any tears and give these sadists the satisfaction of seeing him break, but he couldn’t keep his voice in. Silent for the most part, Sam still let out anguished grunts and muffled groans, small sounds of agony as they pounded his flesh, a hit here, a kick there, knuckles connecting with his shoulders and head, feet with his hands, sides and chest, and god, he wished he could’ve just curled into a ball to at least protect his front, but that wasn’t an option at the moment.

So he just took it, absorbed it all, forced himself to think of this as training instead of torture, imagined John barking orders at him. Tense your muscles and make them your shield. Don’t show any signs of pain. Block out the pain and focus on the adrenaline rush it gives instead. Sam listened to his father’s distant voice and did as he was told, showed his attackers that he could take it, that he wasn’t going to be a fun little toy they could take apart and watch as he screamed. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t keep his voice in and he cried out when one of them stomped down on his ankle several times until he felt something give, snap with a sickening tingle followed by excruciating pain; and when he received a sharp kick to his foot, like fireworks, it sparked and flared up with an electric spasm, with pain that nearly snatched Sam’s consciousness from him and left him blacked out. He might have welcomed it, he was close to letting the darkness swallow him up, if only temporarily, because he was too overwhelmed, but reality bearing the name of Robby gave him a good slap in the face and brought him back from the verge of unconsciousness.

“No passing out on us yet,” the boy growled warningly before walking around him and toward the rummaging sound coming from his right. Sam was panting, each inhale hurting, and he could only imagine the horrible condition his body must have been in. He ached all over, didn’t dare move his left leg in fear of sending more pain through his system with the slightest movement involving his throbbing ankle, and his eyes were so difficult to keep open, especially the one that hasn’t stopped swelling since he woke up to this cruel parody of a reality.

He coughed, relieved to note that he at least wasn’t coughing up blood yet. The beating has stopped, but he wasn’t sure if he should take that as a good, or bad sign, then just settled on seeing for himself as he turned his head toward the sound of objects clattering together and idle chatter.

“How about this?” Billy asked, kneeling in front of the toolbox and holding up a screwdriver.

Robby shook his head while continuing to rummage around in the box. “Nah, not now. We’ll use that later. I’m thinking about something bigger. Blunter. Somethin’ that’s good at breaking bones.”

He didn’t like the sound of that, at all. Sam swallowed, frowning when that actually caused him pain, then stopped frowning because that hurt as well. They weren’t looking at him right now, too busy trying to pick out the perfect torture tool, so this was his chance. He had to do something, it was now or never, but as he poked the wire around his neck—which, by the way, was beginning to ache from the constant pressure and the way the snare rubbed against his skin—he couldn’t quite come up with anything. First, he couldn’t run. Even if he managed to somehow get out of this stupid trap, which again, was impossible, since the toolbox it was attached to was too far from him, plus was at the moment under the observation of his captors, Sam wouldn’t be able to get far with a busted ankle. Limping back to the cabin would only be possible after he got rid of these two, but first, for that to happen he needed to get his hands on a weapon before they could sink their own in his body. Acquiring something sharp and deadly wouldn’t be happening until the torture brothers decided to come back with Sam’s hopefully future weapons in their hands, so for now, he still couldn’t do anything. But wasting such an excellent opportunity would be…well, a waste, so he needed to try at least something.

Sam looked about himself, but he couldn’t find any sticks or rocks he could use to inflict some amount of pain. He ran his tongue over his teeth, wondering if maybe biting would work. Ripping a chunk of meat out of one of the boys’ throat should be warning enough not to mess any further with him, should convey all his feelings of murderous hatred toward them. That, too, would only work once he wasn’t alone anymore, making him wonder if there really was nothing he could do now.

Then he remembered he still had his pants on and he felt a sudden glimmer of hope filling his chest with anticipation and a sliver of confidence.

Dean’s phone was in his pocket. He could still feel its presence, the slight pressure against his upper thigh as the device sat patiently in his front pocket, waiting to be used. He could actually call for help, but for this to work, he needed to be sneaky. Sam glanced at the boys, now in the middle of arguing over who’d use the wrench on his head, then slowly reached back and patted around his pants until he cautiously pulled out the phone. Even such small movement caused him pain, but he didn’t make a sound, ignored everything and concentrated on his plan while keeping an ear out for anything suspicious from the boys.

He placed the phone on the ground, hid it under his palm while pushing the buttons with his thumb until he found John’s number. His dad would rush straight back here once he’d hear what was happening, as while Sam couldn’t actually talk to him on the phone unless he wanted to be found out in less than a second, he could still call him and then just leave the phone like that. That way, John would hear everything, know what was up without Sam needing to explain anything.

His heart beat frantically in his chest as he finally pressed the call button, immediately lowering the volume so Pinky and the Brain over there wouldn’t notice anything, then quickly slid the phone back in his pocket. And now the wait began.

Sam didn’t actually have to wait long before the boys were prancing back to him, Robby holding the wrench while Billy had a utility knife in his hand, pushing the blade in and out with his thumb in an intimidating manner. They both had a sort of sick, playful smirk on their faces, but they didn’t know what Sam did, so he wasn’t feeling that scared anymore. He was hopeful and had faith.

“Missed us?” Robby asked with a taunting tone that also crept into his eyes, stopping on Sam’s left side while Billy stood on his right.

“Screw you,” he spat, then remembered the phone in his pocket and raised his voice. “Do you sickos do this often, huh? Kidnap kids and bring them back to your little shack, beat them up for your own enjoyment? Doesn’t matter how loud they are, because nobody can hear them in the forest.” Sam snorted derisively, masking how that sent a bolt of pain through his abdomen with a sneer. “You two disgust me.”

“We leave you alone for a minute and now suddenly you’ve got a mouth on ya.” The boy chuckled, shaking his head before pressing the dirty sole of his shoe against Sam’s side, nudging and giving him little pushes that nearly made him fall over. “No, you fuckin’ brat, you’re our first. And what a fun first you are. We usually only play with animals like this, beat and skin them while they’re still alive, but…” He trailed off, sliding the wrench down the other’s spine before hooking the tool’s jaw into Sam’s pants and giving it a tug. “Now that we know how much better humans are, I think we’re gon’ start a new tradition, starting with you.”

“Wha—” Sam began in slight panic, which only doubled when he felt as Robby yanked on his pants, gradually pulling them off him. That wasn’t good, not at all and for many reasons, and he instinctively began squirming and thrashing, though only with his lower half, because yeah, the snare. “Get your hands off me!” he shouted in irritation, trying to use his good leg to somehow kick Robby in the face, and then suddenly he did stop, but that didn’t matter. Sam’s pants have been tugged down to his knees, and he could barely stop the frustrated tears that stung his eyes when he felt the wind against his bare ass, that fucker apparently bringing his underwear along with his pants.

“Ooh, nice,” Billy drawled with twisted appreciation, lips stretching into a grin when Sam shot a piercing glare at him. “What’s wrong, pet? Don’t like the cold?”

“Hey, what’s this?” He felt Robby’s hands fumbling with his pants, and then he suddenly felt a hateful mix of nauseating dread and terror when the boy pulled out the phone from his pocket. Sam’s vocal chords failing to work, he just watched with slightly wide, fear-stricken eyes as Robby scowled at the phone before pressing some buttons on it, then looked up from the screen at Billy. “The bitch was calling someone.”

“What?” Billy blinked smartly. “The cops?”

The boy shook his head. “Some dude named John,” he said before fixing Sam with a hard, warning look. “That your daddy you’ve been yappin’ about?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a friend of mine who just so happens to be a police officer,” he lied with a poker face, then leveled Robby with a threatening look of his own. “Either way, I’d suggest you run.”

A long silence followed, with practically everyone glaring at everyone, then Robby took a step back, pressed something else on the phone and raised it. “Say hi to the camera.”

“Whatcha doin’?” Billy asked warily, but he already had a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Takin’ a video. A little surprise for this John guy,” he explained, flashing a mischievous grin at a pretty horrified Sam. “Why don’t you try saying…’I’m a worthless piece of trash’?”

Sam couldn’t believe this was happening. He didn’t think things could take a turn for the worse, but here he was, naked and on the cold ground, shivering each time the chilly breeze washed away the thin layer of warmth his body was emitting, his best escape plan was ruined, and now he was being ordered to degrade himself by saying stupid shit like that. Well, to hell with that. “No,” he refused, plain and simple, tone dogged and final. “If you want to hear it that bad, then you say it. It would suit you much more, anyway.”

Robby’s grin twitched, eyes narrowing somewhat challengingly as he glanced at Billy, and before Sam could’ve realized what that silent look meant, he was hissing and letting out a small, sharp cry as the thin blade of the utility knife slashed across his back, leaving a pulsing cut behind that started bleeding almost immediately.

“Still no, bunny?” Billy purred teasingly as he slowly slid the knife along Sam’s shoulder blade, a sound very close to a whimper escaping him at the torturous feeling of his skin being sliced painstakingly slowly, so much he could feel as every inch gradually gave way to the steel and split open. “C’mon, you know you can say it. You only need a liiiittle bit of encouragement.” He moved the blade back and forth in the wound on Sam’s shoulder, wriggling it between the cut and spreading the flesh apart, the pain as Billy played with his fresh, bleeding wound so raw and intense that he couldn’t help but scream.

“N-No,” he growled through gritted teeth, swallowing back tears as he dug his nails into the earth beneath him to somehow distract himself from the coarse pain. “No, no, I won’t say it, fuck you, I’m not saying it…” Sam hung his head, breaking out in cold sweat and closing his eyes, letting his shaggy hair block his view of the boys and their vicious grins, and starting to feel a tiny bit dizzy from all the pain he was experiencing today. A weak, almost defeated shiver rippled through his body as blood trickled down his shoulder and ribs, the warmth they carried strangely pleasant, but then he was abruptly brought back to the here and now, woken from his brief daze as he got stabbed in the small of his back, the overwhelming pain drawing another scream from him.

“He’s just going to keep doing it, you know? Rip your back to shreds until you finally say it,” he heard Robby’s voice, it sounding somewhat distant from the ringing in Sam’s ears.

Panting heavily and licking his bloody, dry lips, Sam’s eyes fluttered open—at least the right one, as he could barely even open the left one anymore—and he lifted his head to glower at Robby. Clearing his throat, he then snarled, “I don’t care. You can…can do whatever you want, but you won’t hear me saying that. I’ll never say something like that, especially not to a pair of piss-ants like you.”

They stared at each other, Sam and Robby, and he was pleased to see the boy being the first to look away. He wasn’t feeling too smug anymore when he saw the glint of something mysterious and wicked in the other’s eyes, though, and he watched nervously as Robby beckoned his brother over and gave him the phone. “Hold this,” he said, a crooked grin crossing his face as he looked back at Sam. “So you say you don’t care. That you’ll never sing for us, little birdie.” He wandered over to the toolbox and tossed the wrench back into it, before bending down and picking up the screwdriver. “But I think I could make you change your mind. Let’s see…shall we?”

Sam kept his probably comically wide eyes on the boy until the very moment he disappeared behind him, after which he began scraping at the ground uneasily, holding his breath, because he couldn’t see Robby, couldn’t crawl away, and that look in his eyes when he said that, that sadistic and depraved look, oh god, it had Sam very close to having a panic attack right there. Wordless seconds trickled by like that, with Sam having to wait for the boy to do something; however when it finally happened, he wished he could’ve just stayed suspended in an endless wait instead.

The pointy end of the screwdriver trailed down the cleft of his ass, immediately causing him to tense up, blood-curdling fright turning him to stone, but when he felt a hand on his ass, a newfound energy surged through him and Sam leaned away from the unwanted touch, body shuddering in disgusted anger. “What are you doing?!” he demanded, frustration and an overbearing fear coursing through his veins as the sharp, cool steel stopped at his entrance and gave it a few experimental pokes.

“Teaching you how to behave. And makin’ you understand that refusing to do as we say,” Robby responded with audible malice in his voice, pausing to push the tip of the screwdriver into the other’s hole, “has consequences.”

Without warning, the boy forced the rest of the tool inside, shoving it in with unforgiving force and speed, and Sam let out a loud scream as his insides lit up with blinding pain. The screwdriver damaged his hole on its way in, and must have done a worse job once in his ass, because it felt like he’s been impaled on an ice pick, the cold feel of the metal only intensifying the pain, which in itself was bad enough. He couldn’t have been sure, but it certainly felt like he has been cut, the screwdriver biting and tearing into his burning, tender and delicate flesh like a monster’s claw, dragging along the walls of his passage and sending overpowering waves of agony through Sam, paralyzing him in his state of shock. Distress was abruptly replaced by the Hell going on in his ass when Robby began moving the screwdriver, twisting and turning it inside before pulling and pushing again, the thrusts drawn-out, yet still unbearable, and Sam found himself crying out and jolting from the slightest drag.

“No! Stop, stop it!” he screamed pathetically, trying to crawl away in vain, then clenching his ass and attempting to seal it when the screwdriver was withdrawn, but that only made the ruthless slide back of the tool even more painful than before. The ache all over his body, the throbbing in his ankle and his face were all snuffed out by this new terrifying feeling, this piercing torment that left him shaking, his facial expression a painting of pure suffering as he tried so hard to keep the shrieks to the minimum, but it was impossible. Sam thought he could take it, would be able to withstand anything that came his way, but as it turns out, that was clearly not the case. He has never felt pain like this before, didn’t think it was possible, but he was practically getting fucked by a screwdriver, and it hurt so goddamn much.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open, but closing them only made the pain worse for some reason, so he settled on just staring at the ground while sounds only a wounded animal would make left his lips, and as he watched something small and transparent drop onto a strand of grass before slowly trickling down on it, Sam realized he was crying.

“There you go, wailing like a little pig,” Robby said scornfully, laughing as he smacked the other’s ass with his free hand, Sam flinching at the suddenness and sting of it. “Now, piggy, won’t you accept your role as trash and say the words already? Or do you wanna keep takin’ this screwdriver up your whore ass instead?”

Biting down on a whine, he sniffled and blinked back the tears. “No, no, but I won’t, no…” he refused weakly, the tiniest hint of a whimper creeping into his voice which was rather close to breaking, to betraying him. He wasn’t going to give in, no matter how much it hurt. They could cut off his legs for all he cared, dismember or mutilate him, but they’d never get those words out of him, Sam knew that much for sure.

At least he thought he did, until Robby began picking up the speed with which he was moving the screwdriver in him.

Sam screamed, loud and unrestrained and wretched, as the boy literally stabbed the tool into his ass, spreading his cheeks with one hand while the other just kept cruelly shoving the tool into him, kept yanking it out before driving it right back in with so much force, so damn roughly he was sure that thing was splitting him apart and turning his insides to pulpy mush, the mystery of whether he was bleeding or not quickly solved when he felt something warm oozing from his hole and trickling down his skin. It was the worst so far, the pain excruciating and all-consuming, and he just couldn’t control his voice anymore, deafening cries and yelps escaping him as he writhed uncontrollably, his throat turning sore very soon, and at a particularly brutal thrust that must have left another hole inside him, Sam broke and began sobbing.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m a worthless piece of trash, I am, so please stop! Stop!” he whined miserably, tear-stained cheeks burning with humiliation and exasperation, arms and legs trembling from the continuous effort to support his weight.

He stopped screaming when the assault on his hole halted, his aching chest heaving rapidly as he panted, taking in frantic breaths and finally closing his eyes, then made a quiet, protesting sound as his chin was grabbed and tilted up, and Sam reluctantly blinked his one working eye open to see Billy leering at him wolfishly with a lopsided grin on his face. “Good boy,” he cooed, moving his fingers to the other’s cheeks and squishing them teasingly while holding the phone to his face. “Here, give the camera a kiss.”

Sam shot a feeble glare at the boy, trying to wrench his head out of Billy’s grip, but when he accidentally moved too far and caused the snare to tighten its unrelenting hold, he gave up and stayed still instead. The screwdriver still embedded in his ass, resting all the way inside him, he couldn’t be sure if they were done with him, the dangers of that nightmarish object hurting him again a very real possibility still, so when Billy began petting his hair and coaxing him into blowing a kiss to the phone’s camera, Sam only let himself keep glaring and hesitate for a few minutes before pursing his lips. He was blushing like mad, shamefaced and humiliated as he made a kissy face and looked at the camera, the sound his lips made as he blew a kiss painfully loud in the tense silence of the forest, and his eyes watered again with mortified tears, because this was so degrading.

First they beat him, then make him bleed, and now this. Sam would need loads of chocolate and strawberry cakes to recover after this, but somewhere in the deeper, darker parts of his mind, he was beginning to doubt if there’d even be an “after this”.

If he’d be able to get out of this situation alive…

 


	3. Team Effort

 

“No.”

Billy, kneeling in front of him and still videotaping him with the phone, patted the patch of grass invitingly, a determined wickedness present in his penetrating blue eyes. “Don’t be like that. You’re a baby bunny, my pet bunny, so I’ve gotta take care of ya. Gotta feed you, and we all know that bunnies love grass,” he said with a derisive edge to his voice, the boy grinning at him with an almost childish mischief.

He has been trying to convince Sam to eat some grass for the past few minutes, but hasn’t succeeded in his mission yet, and if it was up to Sam, then he never would. He had no plans on humiliating himself any further, thank you very much, and kept refusing the boy’s considerate offer each time, but he also wasn’t stupid. He knew that, sooner or later, he’d have to do it. Either that, or the screwdriver would pick up where it left off, Sam just sensing how eager Robby was to hurt him some more, if the way that sick fuck kept stroking his ass was anything to go by.

So while he managed to buy himself some extra painless seconds, the moment he saw Billy look over the his shoulder at the other boy, raising his eyebrows expectantly, Sam gulped, swallowing down his pride as he was once again forced to submit to these evil brothers’ teasing. Before Robby could’ve pulled the screwdriver out and thrusting it back in, Sam was leaning down as much as he could without pulling on the snare, but even like that, he couldn’t reach the tuft of grass, not even as he poked his tongue out and tried to desperately lick it.

Laughing at his failure, Billy grasped some grass and tore them from the ground, then held his palm out for Sam. “There you go, bun-bun. Eat away,” he purred encouragingly, chapped lips curling into a sneer.

Sam’s eyes flicked over to the phone as he uttered a silent prayer to anyone who’d listen, begging for John to have heard at least a small bit of the conversation over the phone, hoping his dad was on the way to come get him. Then he tried to shut his brain down, ignore the voice in his head screaming at him not to give in, not to turn into an obedient and compliant little plaything, because really, what else was there to do? Pain or humiliation, he had to choose between the two, and while he would have normally chosen the former in a heartbeat…it was too much. He was a coward, afraid of the screwdriver and the unforgettable, extreme pain it promised, of the way it tore into him and made him wonder if this was Hell, if he didn’t actually get killed when he thought he merely lost consciousness and was now trapped in Hell, doomed to suffer through a colorful range and variety of torments intended to break him, to strip him off his dignity and hope.

So instead of knocking the grass out of the boy’s hand and—since he was pretty close—attempting to bite a chunk out of his neck just as he had planned, Sam lowered his head and parted his lips, hesitating before gathering up a few strands of grass with his tongue from the other’s palm and giving them a tentative chew. Well, no surprise there. They tasted like grass, bitter and earthy, bearing some similarities to salad, but while Sam enjoyed munching of salad leaves on boring days, eating this type of green wasn’t that fun. He pulled a face, as the more he chewed, the stronger the taste got, and he shoved the grass behind his teeth, gradually grinding them between his molars until they had a puree type of consistency, making them easier to swallow. At least he _thought_ it would be easier, but he still ended up grimacing and coughing, having to swallow repeatedly to stop himself from gagging.

“Don’t forget the rest of your meal,” Billy reminded him, lifting his palm and moving it closer to the other’s mouth, Sam tempted to bite the hand, but chose to glare at the boy instead while grudgingly finishing his grass dinner.

It took him a minute or two, but in the end, he managed to eat all of it, not feeling extremely proud of himself. He would’ve been glad if he could have thrown it all up, preferably right on Billy’s clothes. He held his nausea under control, though, because knowing them, they’d only make him lap up his own vomit or something, and he wasn’t quite ready to undergo something so fucking disgusting yet. Or ever. Definitely never ever.

“Aw, you ate it all! You really are such a tame, sweet little bunny now. Learned your lesson, haven’t you?” the boy drawled with an adoring, somewhat demented smile, scratching Sam under his chin, the touch making him shudder in revulsion.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped violently, pulling back and slapping the other’s invasive hand away. “I’m not a fuckin’ tame anything.”

Billy frowned, then did something that could only be called a bitchslap, Sam’s head whipping to the side from the strength of the blow. “Haven’t I already told you that pets don’t talk back? Or speak in general?” He shook his head disapprovingly and tossed the phone to the ground after pressing something on it, probably ending the video, but Sam wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or terrified by that. The boy then got to his feet, dusting off his pants as he stared at Sam, who really didn’t like the dark, viciously mischievous look on his face. “Maybe it’s time I stuffed your filthy mouth full o’somethin’, shut you up for good.”

There was an amused laugh from behind him as Robby said, “I think I’ll help you with that.” And then all of a sudden, the screwdriver was yanked out of his ass and Sam gasped with a painful cry, wobbling on his hands and knees as he tried not collapsing to the ground, hissing quietly as he seethed, letting his head hang a little. Great, he swore if that asshole was going to shove even more glass into his mouth, Sam was going to spit them right back into his face and then probably go rabid on him, his frustrated rage slowly overpowering self-preservation.

He didn’t like the silence. A lack of taunting remarks usually meant some more pain, so he forced his good eye open—the other one was just swollen shut, so he didn’t even bother trying to crack it open anymore—and looked up just in time to see Billy’s pants and underwear hitting the ground before the boy stepped out of them. Sam just stared and stared for a good moment, brain short-circuiting from the appalling sight in front of him, and when he caught on, realized what the hell was happening, he suddenly wished his other eye wouldn’t be working as well.

And then he went haywire.

“What the fuck?” he growled and hissed like a frenzied cat, even curving his back and baring his teeth, panic only bubbling up inside him even more when the boy took a hold of his thin, flaccid dick and began jerking it.

“Bad bunny, ain’t ya?” Billy drawled with a honeyed voice, soft moans rolling past his lips as he thumbed his slit, then licked his lips and glanced at Robby. “Bet he’s a lil’ virgin.”

“Oh yeah,” the other said with a chuckle, Sam yelping and driven to the verge of tears again as he felt a finger circling his throbbing, bleeding hole, before disappearing and replaced by something hot and heavy, Robby freaking smacking Sam’s ass with his dick while groaning. “Beggin’ for a cock in that slutty hole of his. Need it so bad, don’t cha?” he mocked, spreading the other’s cheeks as he switched to grinding his erection against the cleft of Sam’s ass. “Well, we gon’ give it to you.”

He was going to hurl, this time he was sure of it. “No! Get your paws off me, you disgusting piece of—” he yelled in a mix of fury and horror while struggling as much as the snare let him, trying to frantically get away from the hard flesh sliding back and forth on his ass, but then his head snapped back as Billy grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled fiercely, drawing a startled gasp from him.

“Nu-uh, bunny,” the boy sneered, getting down on one knee as he tried to force his fingers between Sam’s teeth and open his mouth. “Now open up nice and wide for me, will yah?”

Sam let the fingers slip into his mouth just so he could bite down on them, hard, sinking his teeth into the digits with every intention of gnawing them off, the boy’s shriek of pain and surprise only driving him on; but then suddenly he was the one crying out, the flingers vanishing from his mouth as Robby must have grown bored of just humping his ass, and was now in the process of pushing the head of his dick into Sam’s abused hole, growling when it kept slipping out.

“Lemme in, bitch,” Robby snarled, slapping the other’s ass so hard it rocked his body forward and right into the other dick waiting for him, Sam whimpering in utter repulsion and turning his head to the side when Billy nudged the head of his own cock against his lips, then rubbed it against his cheek.

“Yeah, me too,” he purred impatiently, moving the hand that was gripping Sam’s hair to his jaw and pressing down on it while massaging the now rock-hard flesh in his other hand. It wasn’t too thick, but it was long like some fucking snake, and Sam was actually scared it might come alive and bite him. He gritted his teeth together, tenacious and unwilling, determined not to ever open his mouth and let that thing inside, and while he tried doing the same with his rear, clenching his sore hole so as to forbid any sort of entrance, Robby still managed to force his way in after a painstaking amount of time, slowly pushing deeper and deeper and stretching Sam open.

And god, did it hurt. His already wounded, bleeding hole was tearing even more open, getting split in two by the huge cock—because Robby was way older and, apparently, had a way bigger package down there than his brother—burning through him like a fiery iron rod, grazing painfully against the wounds inside him and worsening them, all the while creating new ones. Sam was pretty sure something tore, probably his hole, because blood was now trickling down his thighs as well. Blocking out the pain was impossible, and he was getting distracted by it too, his muffled screams of suffering escaping into the world when Billy succeeded in opening his mouth and just slid home, Sam’s working eye bulging as he wailed around the salty flesh which he immediately bit down on.

“Fuck!” Billy howled and punched Sam until he let go of his dick. Sputtering, he shuddered and went back to letting out horrible yelps and barely controlled screams as Robby began fucking him, grip so firm on his hips that he couldn’t have escaped even if he didn’t have a goddamn snare around his throat. The older boy kept snapping his hips aggressively, pounding Sam’s ass roughly, and then he was crying again, couldn’t stop the flow of hot tears because it hurt so much, and it was disgusting and he was getting raped. Raped. By two people, one of them already groaning and growling like some beast behind him while screwing him raw and bloody, and the other cradling his cock while hissing and glaring at Sam.

Not trusting his ability to speak while he was sobbing and whimpering, but feeling way too much hatred in his soul right now, he carefully let up on the pressure he was exacting on his teeth while clenching his jaw and holding back some of the more pitiful screams, and flashed the best glare he could muster at Billy, which was pretty much just a weak frown. “You deserve to ha-have your dick—” Sam cried out, cutting himself off as a particularly deep and savage thrust sent an electric shock of pure pain from his ass to his entire body, it spreading through his limbs and ripping his nerves to shreds, blinding him for a moment before he continued. “Deserve…to have it chopped o-off, you toothless son of a bitch…!”

He kept his eyes on the boy while his body rocked back and forth, Sam waiting for the moment he’d get used to the pain in his ass and would be able to ignore it, though that might have been wishful thinking from his part, because fuck, it felt like his hole was on fire, and watched as Billy returned his previous glare, his much more intense, getting to his feet with an alarmingly unrecognizable look in his eyes. “Yeah? Alright,” the boy said as he ran his tongue along the little teeth he had, before wandering to the toolbox and pulling out a hammer from its depths, waving it in front of Sam’s nose as he walked back and got into his kneeling position. “Wanna hear you say that once I’ve got yer teeth out of the way and my cock in your mouth.”

A heart-stopping fear hit him as he looked at the hammer in the other’s hand, then immediately ducked his head and pressed his lips together, not even trying to hold back the frenzied, horrified whimper anymore when Billy yanked his head back, then wrapped an arm around his neck, before shoving rough fingers past his taut lips and prying them open.

“C’mon bunny, don’t fight it,” Billy cooed, keeping the other’s head in place while sinking his nails into Sam’s lips, his already bleeding and aching flesh hurting even more from the violently determined action, but he still refused to cooperate, focused on covering his teeth with his lips at all cost.

“Yeah, you ain’t really got another choice,” he heard Robby’s voice over the protesting sounds he was making, felt the boy sliding his hands from Sam’s hips to his ass. “Just accept the cocks we’re givin’ you, you fuckin’ cockslut.” He then spread the other’s cheeks, digging his thumbs in his surely blood covered skin, before upping the tempo and finally, breaking Sam. “Fuck, tight little hole swallowin’ me right up, that’s right,” Robby groaned, then kept talking, filth pouring out of his mouth, but he wasn’t listening anymore because his ass was getting destroyed, and Sam’s brain simply couldn’t keep up with what was happening anymore.

He tried. He was a hunter, raised to withstand much more than your average human, and he really, honestly tried his damnest to take it while holding on to his fighting spirit, along with his sanity. But as Robby’s thrusts sped up, turned from brutal to vicious, inhuman and bloodthirsty, as he somehow managed to shove his thick cock even further up Sam’s ass and fucked him so hard his body was pushed right into the first hit of the hammer, years of training and inner strength disappeared, leaving him hollow and crushed, ruined. Words got lost in his throat, scurrying back to his brain which gradually shut down, all thoughts leaving him aside from one, from a single knowledge. Pain. A whole world of pain, his world, Sam’s soul and every single fiber of his being, body, buzzing and pulsing, glowing with white-hot pain, his damaged mind laser-focusing on it since it was so great, so overpowering it dwarfed everything else. Sorrow and nausea, anger and frustration, humiliation, they all ceased to exist, leaving only the pure, thunderous pain behind that crept into his system, filled him from head to toe and pushed heartbreaking screams and wails out of him, the sounds becoming high-pitched and loud like a siren as the face of the hammer was brought down over and over on his teeth, Sam’s mouth overflowing with blood as his incisors were knocked out, the strong taste of copper making his stomach lurch, however not as much as when Billy’s cock slipped past his lips and empty gums, and found its way at the back of his throat.

He couldn’t bite down even if he had enough working brain cells left, for his teeth were missing, plus his gums hurt so much Sam rather opened his mouth wider instead of closing it, since the way the hard flesh slid and dragged along his bleeding and sensitive gums only sent more pain shooting through him. Billy was shoving in too far and fast, Sam alternating between choking on his blood, the boy’s dick, or both at the same time, all the while screaming around the intrusion and crying like he had a never-ending supply of tears. Both boys were cursing and moaning in delight while fucking him, rocking his body back and forth and into each other’s thrusts, finding the perfect rhythm with which they could make Sam experience pain every millisecond. There were no better times, no pauses, just a constant flow of agony and suffering as he gagged, it being a miracle he didn’t throw up and just die from choking on his vomit, and as the minutes kept growing, he found himself wishing for that to happen. Amidst all the pain was a tiny voice crying for help, needing this to stop. He was hurting too much, body and mind and soul, and he just wanted out, hoping for unconsciousness or even death to save him from the clutches of this evil, this torture plucked straight out of his worst nightmare and made into reality. He would have welcomed the sweet release of death anytime now, anything but this, this insufferable feeling in his ass and whole body.

So Sam Winchester, defeated and desolate, shut himself down, crying and whimpering, and waiting, now only living for the moment he would stop doing so—the moment he’d stop breathing, forever.

 


	4. Lost and Found

 

For the first several minutes, he was excited and eager, all grins of mischief and a spring in his steps.

For the next few, he was bored and sighing almost every minute, getting impatient and wondering what the hell was taking so long.

And now, he was restless and beginning to worry.

Dean tapped his fingers on his knee as he sat on the couch, the pie he took out to soothe his nerves sitting untouched on the coffee table before him, but the black ball of dread that had showed itself around five minutes ago didn’t let him indulge in the sweet treat, his stomach aching with something nagging, the queasy feeling only growing stronger as time passed. He glanced at the clock again, but only a minute had gone by since the last time he checked, and he wondered if he was slowly going crazy, because he couldn’t stay still, left knee bouncing restlessly, and even his heartbeat had accelerated, Dean unable to get it under control, not even as he took deep breaths to calm himself.

One hour. Taking some eggs to some crumbling little cabin, throwing them at it, and then walking back wasn’t supposed to take so long. Maybe twenty minutes, thirty max. Sam was supposed to be back here by now so Dean could tease him and kick his ass if he forgot to take pictures, but his little brat of a brother was nowhere to be seen, and he was starting to get worried. What if the kid got lost? It would be just like him to scramble up his inner compass and find himself trapped in a maze of trees. He’d then probably sulk, or get scared and call out for Dean.

Or maybe not. Maybe the idiot tripped over a ledge or stepped into a bear trap, was now all alone in the cold, in pain and unable to come home. Damn it, he always made fun of Sam for not having a cell phone, but now he wished more than ever that he’d have one so he could call and check up on his brother.

“Where the hell is he?” he mumbled under his breath, sighing for the hundredth time today, then got fed up with just sitting around and waiting for something to happen, and got up, grabbing his jacket from the chair it was draper over and striding to the door.

Once outside, he leaned against the cabin and rubbed his arms. The heating inside wasn’t the best, but it still beat the biting cold the weather had turned into since the last time he’s been outside. The temperature has dropped along with the sun, the orange orb withdrawing from the sky and hovering horizontally over the ground, only a matter of time now before it disappeared completely, drawing the rest of its radiant rays back and letting the darkness take over, seeping into the forest and painting the leaves in silver from the moonlight. For now, though, light remained, a warm glow in the cold as the faint, lazy flame-colored sunlight contoured the shadows cast by the trees littering the woods, Dean watching as the whole forest gained a golden tint from the aureate gleam for a long moment, before pushing himself away from the wall and walking into the scenery belonging to a painting.

He didn’t have time for this. He’s waited long enough, and his big brother instincts were beginning to warn him, a small red alert going off in the back of his head from Sam’s prolonged absence. He could’ve been anywhere, but deciding that checking the other cabin first would be the smartest option, Dean stepped onto the dirt path as soon as he spotted it in the distance, leaving the rest of the forest for later. If Sam wasn’t at the end of the path, he’d be forced to search the whole place, every nook and cranny of the woods, and while the thought alone had him feeling exhausted, he knew he’d do it anyway, promising himself that he wouldn’t rest until he found his little brother.

Calling out, shouting Sam’s name as he walked but never getting an answer, Dean was slowly feeling worse and worse, and it wasn’t long before he was taking his steps hurriedly, his voice unnerved and his breathing rapid, the hands which he had slipped in his pockets for warmth now running through his hair or swaying uselessly at his sides as he speed-walked, following the slithering path while looking for any clues, maybe a broken egg, anything.

He kept going for a while longer before the first sound reached him. Immediately stopping and staying still so he wouldn’t miss the next sound thanks to the leaves crunching beneath his shoes, Dean strained his ears, and soon enough, there came another sound. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it definitely came from someone, and since it also appeared to be coming from the way he was heading, he didn’t hesitate before taking off running further down the path. As he went, the sounds became clearer, and both confusion and a strange sort of fright welled up in him as he realized they were groans, sounding rather pleased and different. Two voices, moaning and cursing as if they were getting it on in the woods, and for a brief moment, Dean halted and wondered if he should keep going, risk the possibility of seeing some potentially scarring sex scene, as from what he could tell, the voices were both male. And he really didn’t feel like taking a peek at some live-action gay porn. Or any kind of gay porn, really.

As soon as he heard the third voice, though, all his reluctance about witnessing some weird sex vanished, replaced by bone-chilling terror that left him nailed to the ground for what seemed like an eternity, before he was once again darting toward the sounds.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.

Sam was one of those rare people that had true goodness in their heart. Dean was always proud of him for that, for not letting this sick world dirty him. When he was fourteen, he used to be a bitter kid, hating this life, just like Sam now; but the difference between them was that his little brother was always smiling. Those dimples were God-given, absolutely beautiful, even if he sometimes poked them teasingly. Another thing that had him grinning with pride was how brave Sam was. Like a true hunter, he was headstrong and could already throw a nasty punch, had the brains of a genius and the agility of a cat, and Dean knew that this boy would one day grow up to be an honorable man others would look up to, someone he’d be glad to have as a brother.

He never once thought he’d have to see the kid like that, so bloodied and broken, and with two guys raping him.

The kid, his precious, strong little brother, didn’t seem that dangerous anymore on his hands and knees. Naked, body full of wounds and bruises, and a once bright, pretty face now decorated with a horrible black-eye, with pools of blood under him, Sam looked beaten and damaged beyond repair, the weak, quiet whimpers leaving him not even sounding like his brother. He had one literally bloody cock slip-sliding in and out of his mouth, while another one was pounding his ass, and Dean blinked once, before shutting down completely and letting a murderous fury take over his very being.

“WHAT IS THIS?” he roared, his voice nearly breaking with emotion as he stomped over to the absurdity taking place before him, wide-eyed and heart breaking over and over again with each step he took.

“Ah, who the fu—” The piece of shit having his cock in Sammy’s mouth glared at him, frowning, then was crying out as Dean slugged him in the face, before tackling him to the ground, his fists raining down on that ugly face until he noticed a hammer not far from them, then picked it up and bashed the guy’s head in, not even flinching as blood speckled his face when he crushed the other’s skull.

“Motherfucker!” the guy fucking Sam’s ass hollered at the sight, pulling out of his brother and rushing over to him. Dean, with eyes completely devoid of anything anymore, stood up and slashed the claw of the hammer across the other’s face, the bastard hissing before lunging at him, but he just stepped out of the way and brought the hammer down on the back of the guy’s head. He staggered forward, so Dean did it again, this time sending him to his knees, then again and again, grunting when he got elbowed in the side, but he didn’t let that stop him. The guy managed to turn around, was on his back and trying to kick Dean in the jaw, so he grabbed the foot flying his way and twisted, breaking it with one sharp, swift movement, then shut the screaming man up by discarding the hammer and wrapping his hands around the other’s throat. He squeezed hard, harder than ever, putting all of his weight into it and looking straight into the rapist’s panicked eyes, while his own stayed dark and cold, almost emotionless if not for the red-hot rage fueling him and twitching his lips into a bloodthirsty snarl.

He kept his hands around the corpse’s throat even after the light had gone out of its eyes, putrid soul leaving its body, then got to his feet and fought the urge to empty his stomach as he turned around and looked at his brother. Sam lying on the ground, face-down, seeming way too pale and motionless to Dean. Horrified, he closed the distance between them in less than a second and knelt down next to the shattered form of his baby brother, mouth opening and closing without any words coming out, and bloody hands shaking as he reached out and tried to remove whatever that thing was around Sam’s neck; however when he realized it was all but severing his brother’s head, it was wrapped so tightly around his throat, Dean gasped from panic and shock.

“No…no, no. No,” he whispered, repeating the words as he realized he couldn’t remove it, and Sam was too still, didn’t seem to be breathing, oh god, no. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the toolbox the wire was attached to, frantically looking for something useful before picking up a pair of pliers and falling back onto his knees next to Sam, cursing wretchedly when the wire only tightened even more as he tried to cut it. It took him a painstaking amount of time, but after a while, he managed to use the pliers to cut the wire from his brother’s throat, immediately removing it and throwing it aside, tears stinging his eyes when he pulled the unconscious form into his arms. His brother’s skin was so damn cold to the touch, and he quickly shrugged out of his jacket before draping it over the other, hoping that could bring some heat back into the poor thing’s body. “God, Sammy…” Dean swallowed back the tears and held the ruined form of his brother, not finding the strength in his legs to stand up just yet. He sat there, brushing sticky strands of hair out of Sam’s face, revealing his tear-stained cheeks, the several discolored bruises on his skin and the swollen black-eye, the possibly broken nose, and a mouth still seeping blood. His lips and chin were covered with it, and for a brief moment Dean was terrified they have cut his brother’s tongue out, but when he gingerly pulled the kid’s lips back, he noticed how some of his teeth were missing, a stomach-churning feeling passing through him as he remembered how there was already blood on the hammer when he grabbed it.

What have they done to his brother? What kind of monsters were these people? Dean wanted to kill them again, didn’t feel a shred of guilt over their deaths. The only thing he regretted was not giving them a slower one.

“Sammy, please,” he pleaded with such a weak voice it even surprised him, trailing a gentle finger along the nasty wound the wire left on his brother’s neck. “Please open your eyes. Don’t do this to me, come on kiddo, wake up. Please…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, clenching his jaw as he let some tears escape him, before wiping his eyes and not even daring to look at what had happened between Sam’s legs as he picked him up, slowly and carefully standing up with the feather-light kid in his arms. He had taken the other’s pulse, and it didn’t look good, so he needed to get them back to the cabin as soon as possible, or his brother might not survive his wounds.

And that wasn’t an option.

He barely took three steps forward when he heard something from behind him, but before he could’ve turned around, Dean felt the cold, definite press of the barrel of a gun against the back of his skull.

“You the one who got to my boys?” a disembodied voice asked, sounding pissed but not as much as Dean.

“Maybe, yeah,” he answered, his voice somewhat raspy from the pent-up emotions and a frustrated impatience, because he really didn’t have time to deal with one more of these fuckers. “Would you like to join them?”

His head got nudged forward as the barred was pressed harder against him. “Scum,” the man spat, then continued after a short pause. “That someone you know? S’this supposed to be some rescue mission, huh?” He laughed throatily, the rough sound making Dean want to bash his head in, take the gun from him and shove it between his teeth before pulling the trigger. “I think you’re too late with that, son. That bitch’s a goner.”

Gritting his teeth so hard it almost hurt, Dean emitted a low growl and held the pile of limbs in his arms closer. “Call him that again, and I’m going to give you the slow death I should’ve given to those two pathetic sacks of shit,” he snarled threateningly, tone rumbling with black thunderclouds. “And this kid is strong, you shouldn’t underestimate him. Shouldn’t underestimate me, either,” he said, before swiftly stepping aside while turning around, then kicking the man so hard in the knee it buckled under him.

Assessing the situation, Dean knew he had to either act, or let himself be executed by a bullet to the head. It was a gamble, knew that fighting with Sam still in his arms was risky, but if he didn’t do anything, both of them would surely end up dead. The man had a shotgun in his hands instead of the handgun Dean was expecting, but that actually made disarming him easier, and he managed to knock the gun out of the other’s hand probably moments before the man could’ve squeezed off a shot, delivering a brutal kick to his wrist before stepping on the shotgun, trapping it under his foot.

They glared at each other meaningfully, their intentions crystal clear, then the man held up his hands while slowly getting to his feet. “Foolish boy. You can’t save him, or yourself. Think you’re tough?” He scoffed hoarsely. “My boys, they were tough. Not their fault they got caught off guard with their pants off, murdered by some nobody,” he hissed, eyes narrowing before a cruel smirk spread across his face. “But I know they did a good one on the kid. They always excelled at pushing their playthings to the limit, bending them until they broke and kicked the bucket.”

“You think I give a shit?” Dean snapped, eyes burning with the hateful fire of a thousand suns as he glared daggers at the man, honestly considering putting Sam down just so he could shoot this fucker in the face. “It’s not my brother lying on the ground with his brains leaking from his skull and dead eyes staring at the sky, but those two! So you can’t fucking tell me what I can or cannot do, you poor goddamn excuse for a human being! You’re trash, just like your spawns, and don’t worry—as soon as I’ve got him somewhere safe, I’ll be coming back for you and skin you, make you beg for me to kill you.”

The man chuckled, curtly and dismissively. “How are you going to do that? You won’t leave this place, ever. You and your…brother will die here. I’ll make sure of that, give you the slow death you’re going on about, show you what happens when you cross me!” he bellowed all of a sudden, closing the distance between them and slugging Dean in the face, all in less than a second.

Taken by surprise, he stumbled back, but managed to dodge the next attack which would have been a rather unpleasant uppercut. Then the man was reaching for the shotgun in the grass, and Dean knew he really had no choice but let go of Sam to take care of this situation, so he quickly but carefully lowered him, before pouncing on his enemy. They struggled for the shotgun, the barrel facing upward and away from both of them as they tugged on it all the while trying to land one blow after the other on each other, then finally Dean managed to yank it out of the other’s grasp after kneeing him in the stomach; but before he could’ve pointed it at the man’s head and blown his brains out, he was suddenly getting fucking rugby tackled to the ground. He growled like an animal, pushing the shotgun away which was now being pressed against his throat horizontally, the man apparently giving up on using it the way one was supposed to and instead turning it into a strangling weapon. But while he was stronger than Dean, he was also too focused on murder and so didn’t anticipate the boy’s hand shooting up and jabbing two fingers in his eyes.

“You rotten sonofa—” the man shouted in a furious pain, slapping Dean’s hand away, then let out a strangled grunt when the other punched him in the throat.

“Die,” he spat venomously, as if giving a fatal order, before leveling the shotgun with the other’s mouth and pulling the trigger, but the asshole rolled out of the way just in time, the shell whizzing past the man’s ear and soaring through the air, hitting a tree. Frustrated, Dean whipped the gun back toward the other but, before he could’ve squeezed off another shot, the weapon was abruptly grabbed out of his hands, and then he was groaning with his face screwed up in pain as he received a blow to the forehead with the butt of the shotgun, sending his head bumping against the hard ground. He cursed and tried to get a hold of the gun, to kick the man off of him, to thrash around and move his head, but the harsh hits just kept coming, always striking his forehead and making him so dizzy he could barely keep up with the hits, the butt of the shotgun a blur before his unfocused eyes as he tried to get his hands to block the constant assault on his head…but it wasn’t long before his vision began fading completely, and fuck, he was going to pass out, shit.

He heard a condescending laugh filled with evil, with a disgusting darkness that belonged to monsters, and before the last blow could’ve knocked him out, before he lost consciousness, Dean realized something important that John has forgot to tell him.

That humans were the worst monsters of them all.

 


	5. Are You Afraid of the Dark?

 

He woke with a horrible headache, his limbs feeling sore and cold, so very cold. It was all around him, pressing against him from behind and under him, sending violent chills across his body, and Dean wondered where he was or what happened, but as soon as he raised a hand to rub his temples and felt the pain flare up in his forehead when his fingers touched his aching skin, everything came back to him, and his heart stopped.

Gasping as the memories—finding Sam, his baby brother lying in his own pool of blood, split open and hollowed out, limp body corpse-cold, and then murder, gore everywhere before getting knocked out—rushed back to his throbbing head, Dean’s eyes flew open; and then panic that was already building in him expanded, blew up and left him wide-eyed but blind, unseeing, because everything remained the same. He opened his eyes but he still couldn’t see. It was dark as if his eyes were still closed, however when he patted his face with his hands, he noticed he wasn’t blindfolded. Trapped, then. Locked in somewhere black and cold, and wet.

With his sight robbed of him in the darkness, he used the rest of his senses to examine his surroundings. The ground under him was soft and wet, gave way easily under his fingers as he gave the soil a few tentative pokes and presses, and the wall behind him was damp and moist, ice-cold and made of rough bricks. It was also round instead of flat, circular, as if it was surrounding him like a small fortress, as if he was in a hole…

Or the bottom of a well.

Fuck. Fuck, shit, crap. He recalled seeing a well near the cabin, and as he looked up, he just knew how a few meters above him was the same wooden board blocking the moonlight from entering the abyss, letting the darkness roam free and rule over the enclosed space, Dean feeling a claustrophobic dread rush through him and leave him breathless for a moment. Not good; he needed to get out of here as soon as possible, climb the bricks and go back to the surface, couldn’t stay here for too long or else—

Another wave of panic had him nearly throwing up and fainting at the same time, the fear hitting him so hard he could literally feel the blood draining from his face. Sam. Where was Sam? Oh god, what happened to him? Who knows how long Dean’s been out, and what if while he was, the man had gone ahead and killed his little brother? Or maybe he was torturing him, finishing what his wretched sons have started, and yeah, Dean was having a panic attack. He was hyperventilating as he got to his feet, wobbling and panting, hands franticly feeling around himself and the wall, looking for a brick that was sticking out far enough so he could use it to climb, but then he stilled, body freezing mid-step like a photo, completely motionless, and he even stopped breathing for the tip of his foot nudged against something.

Something soft and very probably having the consistency of human flesh.

In a matter of seconds, Dean was on his knees and reaching out, a cocktail of emotions crashing down on him, and he felt both relief and a petrifying sorrow as he gently trailed his hands up his little brother’s body, hissing in sympathy when his fingertips brushed against an uncountable number of wounds. Sam was naked once again, his jacket missing from the other’s frail, freezing body, but Dean let himself relax only momentarily as he took a hold of his brother’s wrist and found a weak pulse. He was immediately filled with concern and all the depressing heart-wrenching emotions that came with it when he realized that Sammy was lying in the muddy dirt with his wounds, and without hesitating, he sat right back against the wall and scooped the lax form into his arms, feeling something warm dripping onto his pants as he maneuvered his brother into a position in which he was straddling Dean, who closed his eyes and tried not to think of the reason why blood was still seeping from the other’s behind.

He was at a complete loss, not knowing what to do first, then just decided to lean Sam’s body against his chest while he attempted to clean the wounds that seemed to be smudged with dirt. He could only use his fingers to wipe the dirt away, but it was better than nothing, and after he was done, Dean lightly traced his clean fingertips along the other’s cuts and gashes, studying which were worse and needed immediate care that, unfortunately, he couldn’t give his brother. There were smaller cuts on the small of Sam’s back, some of them seemingly deeper than what his fingers told him, judging from the amount of blood caked around them, then many others scattered across the rest of it. The worse was probably the gash on the kid’s shoulder—a straight line running from his spine to his shoulder, traversing the shoulder blade. It was deep and wide enough that if he wanted, Dean could’ve slipped his pinky inside it. And it made him sick.

“Hey, Sammy?” he whispered faintly, voice quieter than he expected and breaking halfway like it had a faulty wire. Wrapping one arm around his little brother’s waist, careful not to exert pressure on any of the wounds there, he kept the other in place as he tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear, his head an apparent weight on Dean’s shoulder. He made sure Sam was leaning on the better side of his face, the one without the black-eye, and he caressed the other’s cheek with the back of his fingers, very gingerly gliding them over the swelling surrounding his brother’s eye and grimacing. It felt pretty bad, would need a lot of ice packs to bring down the swelling, along with days of rest, but after that, it should be fine.

However that was only one of his many worries, one of the many damages Sam’s body has suffered, and he honestly had no idea how to fix all of them. A hospital would come in handy, but first they needed to somehow get out of this well. He couldn’t carry his brother out, couldn’t climb the bricks while holding onto an unconscious body, so he needed the kid awake. But at the same time, maybe dragging him back to the conscious world, with all these surely horribly painful wounds would be akin to torture for the poor thing, and Dean didn’t want him hurting any more. Staying here while doing nothing wasn’t an option, though, so with a heavy heart, he decided to wake Sammy up as soon as possible, the pain they’d both feel a necessary evil, a sacrifice they’d have to make in order to escape from here.

Sighing, he planted a feather-light kiss on what he believed what Sam’s forehead, about to give a little shake to the kid when he frowned. His lips, compared to the other’s skin, were burning, and he doubted he had a fever. It was his brother who was slowly succumbing to hypothermia, but Dean couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t allow something like that defeat Sam, had promised himself he’d keep him safe, and he was bent on keeping that promise. He was also cold, could barely feel his fingers, but he didn’t care. His well-being came last, and so Dean ignored the uncomfortable shivers shaking his body as he pulled his shirt over his head and leaned back against the sharp, icy brick wall, the cold only intensifying how the rough surface dug into the skin on his back, the grating feeling uncomfortable but not even half as bad as Sam could be feeling. Putting his shirt on the other’s unconscious body wasn’t that easy, but after around a minute of fumbling, he had the fabric hanging loosely on his brother’s upper body, and even though he couldn’t see anything, he knew the kid must have looked so lithe and tiny, brittle in Dean’s oversized shirt.

He pulled Sam in close, pressing their chests flush together while keeping his hold gentle, as if he was cradling the body. Blinking into the darkness, he listened to the only thing he could hear, which was his little brother’s breathing. It was barely audible and slow, shallow, and whenever Dean thought it stopped, thought he couldn’t hear anything anymore, he reached up with trembling hands and tilted the other’s head back so he could listen closer, each time letting out a silent, relieved sigh when he felt the soft caress of Sammy’s breath against his skin.

When he knew he couldn’t hold it off any longer, Dean raised a hand to the other’s head and began stroking it, gently and tenderly, before clearing his throat and mumbling into his little brother’s hair. “Sammy, wake up. You’ve gotta wake up, please. I know it’s bad, I know you don’t want to, and I’m so sorry, but I need you to do it. I’m sorry…” He sniffled, a sad smile crossing his face because he could feel those persistent tears welling up in his eyes again.

Sorry. A sorry wasn’t going to fix this. This, which was ultimately his fault, wasn’t it? Dean tried not thinking about it, was too busy being angry and frightened for his baby brother to see the very core of the problem. He was the one who asked, no, who insisted on sending Sam out here to carry out some stupid, childish prank, just because he was bored. Just because he wanted entertainment, and his brother’s suffering was fun enough. He was such a fucking idiot, letting the kid go out into the woods, all alone in the cold, to egg some shady-looking little shack in the middle of the forest. What the hell? How could he have been so blind as to not see how dangerous that could be? No, of course he didn’t realize; probably wouldn’t have cared even if he became aware of all the risk factors, for that’s who he was. He never gave a shit, loved to tease and be an asshole to his brother, because it was easy, because he could, because he was the big brother and messing with Sam was fun. And look what happened. What he’s done, let happen to the greatest thing in this putrid, foul world. Sure, he was a jerk to his little brother, but that didn’t mean he hated him. No, not at all. Dean loved that kid the most. More than eating pie, more than driving, more than flirting with girls or sleeping, than breathing. Sammy was the only one that made living in a place filled with monsters and crazy, disgusting shit to the brim bearable, he was the reason Dean didn’t become one of those emo teenagers that hated life. Sam and his dimples, his hugs and laughs, his hilarious bitchface and adorable puppy dog eyes, his voice and whole presence was enough to keep Dean happy, to make it worth living, make him believe that good still existed and it was always sitting in the backseat of the Impala.

And now, he ruined it.

He destroyed the most precious gem he swore to protect.

Swallowing hard and biting down on his tongue to stop the tears that threatened to leave his eyes, tears he didn’t even deserve to shed, Dean continued running his fingers through the other’s once smooth hair, which was now matted and shaggy, clinging together in several places from dried blood or mud, then froze when he felt movement under his hands. He held his breath, wondering if he was imagining things again, waiting, waiting, and when Sam’s head moved again, he felt a glimmer of hope flash in his heart and soul, hand immediately going back to petting the other’s head encouragingly, comfortingly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” Dean whispered when he heard something that was too forlorn and miserable to be even called a whimper, his lips brushing against the top of his brother’s head as he held him closer. “Sammy, you’re fine now, shhh…”

Sam’s breathing was accelerating. He could both feel and hear it, the painful snuffles coming more frequently and his chest heaving against Dean’s, and the whimpers weren’t stopping either. If anything, they were becoming more desperate and hopeless, and then his brother made a sound only a trapped animal would and began squirming and struggling, weak little shrieks leaving him as he tried to crawl out of the other’s lap.

Cursing lowly, Dean reached out and wrapped both arms around his frenzied brother, hugging him to his chest. “Sam, Sammy, calm down. C’mon kid, it’s me, Dean.” But it wasn’t working. Sam was shaking like a leaf in a storm, fingers clawing clumsily but wildly at Dean’s bare chest, high-pitched and panicked wails bouncing off the well’s interior as his brother’s hysteria continued, and this wasn’t good, because the more he struggled, the more wounds would reopen and start bleeding again, Dean able to hear the pain in Sam’s aghast, muddled whimpers. So he just kept his arms around his poor baby brother, not letting up on the hold as he shushed the frantic kid, softly whispering and humming. And it took some time, but after a while Sam stopped thrashing, then started sobbing instead, blunt nails digging into Dean’s shoulders as pitiful sobs shook the body in his arms, and he just held him, warming and calming him, while his heart kept crumbling with each devastated little sniffle, the hot tears rapidly cooling on his skin and only making him shiver even more violently, but he didn’t mind.

When it seemed like Sam would never stop crying, he finally did, and then just lay panting against Dean’s chest, body rigid save for the occasional trembles passing through him. He waited for a long moment, needing his brother unflustered and aware for what he was about to ask from him, then slid his hands to the other’s face, cupping it between his palms as he caressed the wet cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re fine. You hear me, Sam? You will be alright, I promise you that. And I’m gonna get us out of here, I will, but for that I…” He trailed off, gazing into the darkness and hoping he was looking at Sam’s eyes, hoping the kid could actually hear him. “I need you to hold onto me, okay?”

There was a short pause, but just when he was about to ask his brother if he could hear him—what if they did something to his eardrums?—Sam very slowly and wordlessly snaked his arms around Dean’s neck and held on, soft sniffles escaping him. Alright, this was good. This meant that his brother was still sane, was capable of understanding and hearing him. This was good news, but he didn’t have time to celebrate. Carefully, he let go of Sam and proceeded to stand up, pressing his palms into the bricks behind him and pushing himself away from them while getting to his feet; however as soon as he leaned just a bit forward, the arms around his neck were slipping, and suddenly, his brother was falling back into the mud, Dean knowing when he landed from the dull thud that sounded much louder in the enclosed space.

Cursing, he immediately sank to his knees and gathered the once again shaking mess into his arms. Sam had returned to sobbing, was wrapping his ice-cold arms around the other’s neck as if telling Dean to try again, but he shook his head. He got carried away, had put too much faith in his brother, expected too much of him without taking into consideration what the boy has just been through. Of course he’d be weak like a flower after what happened, who wouldn’t be? And Sam was still young, body more resistant than that of a normal fourteen years old’s, stronger, but still so thin and small, so easy to snap in two. Nobody could stay resilient after getting tortured, raped and who knows what else, so it was truly selfish of Dean to expect his brother to be just fine and in full strength after such a horrible incident.

He was blaming himself again, the guilt slowly eating away at him, but this wasn’t the right time to be hating himself. He’d have time for that later. For now, he had to focus on Sam, and Sam alone, as Dean really wasn’t the one in need of care and comfort. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered reassuringly, going back to their previous position even though the wet earth under and the frigid wall behind him were incredibly uncomfortable. And even though he couldn’t see anything, he was pretty sure his breath has become visible in the drop of temperature the night had brought with itself. “It’s not your fault. Alright? Listen to me, you’re just a bit weak, it’s fine. We’ll think of another way, don’t worry,” was what he was telling Sam while hugging him close and stroking his arms to both calm him down and warm him up, but in all honesty, Dean wasn’t so sure about that. He didn’t want his brother to lose hope, would lie to him without a second thought if it meant he could keep the kid from worrying, and unfortunately, he was quite sure that’s exactly what he was doing right now.

Another way. Dean wanted to believe that there was one, but… Well, no. There was, actually, one, but that would mean he’d have to leave Sam alone. He would have to climb out by himself, kill the son of a bitch who trapped them down here, then either call for help or try to pull his brother out with a rope attached to him. And while those didn’t sound like terrible ideas, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He dreaded leaving Sammy alone, because what if? What if while Dean was away, he’d die from his wounds? Maybe they’d get infected from all the mud he’d be forced to lie in without Dean, or maybe he’d be so out of it that he would try climbing the wall by himself and end up breaking his neck, the fall killing him. That is, if the cold wouldn’t get to him first, and by the time Dean would managed to get his brother out of this pit, his body would already be rigid and frozen, dead from hypothermia. Yeah, no. He couldn’t risk any of that happening to Sam, he refused to leave even if staying might just be worse, might result in both of them dying a slow death. How ironic. He bet this was that old man’s plan all along, his reason for not just cutting their throats while they were both unconscious—to make good of his promise of a slow death.

He sighed silently, carding his fingers through the other’s messy hair until Sam’s sobs died down. He imagined that his brother’s eyes, at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut, was red and puffy from all the crying, and it made him feel a sharp tug in his stomach. If only he could turn back time and make all of this unhappen, if only he would have gotten worried sooner, if only he could’ve resisted being a fucking jerk at least for today, keep his attitude under control, if only John would’ve never brought them here.

If only Sam’s body wouldn’t feel so damn, unnaturally cold…

 


	6. Wind Down

 

It was impossible to know how much time has passed. Hours could have been minutes, and minutes could have very well been days. In the black confinement of the well, time was nonexistent and irrelevant, it had no end or a beginning, was a blurred concept, infinite and fleeting.

And in the darkness, it was only a matter of time before the hallucinations found him.

He hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground in what he supposed must have been a few hours, or more, because at one point he dozed off, then woke up to Sam squirming in his lap. Dean kept wanting to check his brother’s tongue, make sure once again that his tongue was still there, since ever since the kid has regained consciousness, he hasn’t uttered a word. Whimpers and whines were frequent, along with the quiet sobs he tried hiding, but the tears landing on Dean’s bare skin gave him away. Sam has also started sweating, the cold perspiration only making the poor thing shiver and shake more, and sometimes, Dean felt like screaming in despair, because he couldn’t do anything about it.

He tried; rubbed his brother’s back and skin as carefully as possible, warming the frail body in his arms, but that never helped for long, and then after a while Sam was back to shaking. All the sweating made him wonder if he had a fever, but even Sammy’s forehead felt like a goddamn ice cube, so he doubted it. He was listening to his brother’s breathing—rapid with short exhales that ghosted over Dean’s collarbone—while lightly caressing his sides through the fabric and trying not to think too much of the way Sam’s pulse seemed to be accelerating as well, because hey, as long as the his heart was beating and he was breathing, it couldn’t be that bad, when it happened. He had his eyes closed, as keeping them open wouldn’t have made that much of a difference anyway, warming Sammy with his hands and body heat, keeping him as relaxed as possible, when a bright light caught his attention, Dean’s eyes flying open as he looked up. But no, the wooden board was still there, blocking any light from entering the darkness of the well, though he supposed there had to be a hole in it, or else they’d be running out of oxygen, which they weren’t.

Frowning, he blinked a few times before closing his eyes again, but it wasn’t long before the flash, this time a glowing red, appeared behind his eyelids; however when he stared into the darkness and looked around, he still couldn’t see anything. Suddenly uneasy, Dean held his brother closer, arms curling around him protectively as he glared at nothing in particular, wondering if he was starting to lose it, and he didn’t have to wait long for the answer. A pair of red orbs floated into his peripheral vision, over and over again, but whenever he turned his head to look, to catch them with his eyes, they always disappeared, each time rematerializing somewhere else, as if taunting him.

Other things, dark shapes and white sparks appeared here and there as well, and Dean could’ve sworn that he sometimes saw the shadows moving, vibrating and shimmering like a mirage blinking in and out of existence, dancing playfully before his eyes. Feeling his own heartbeat quicken, he closed his eyes, but he wasn’t welcomed by any change, and the strange lights just kept taunting him, watching him, reaching out for him and trying to strangle—

No. Dean gritted his teeth, panting through them as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms until all he could see were several multicolored dots, phosphenes, along with black and gray stripes curling and waving, pulsing in all directions, then pulled his hands back and blinked, a slight relief washing over him when all he saw upon opening his eyes was pure black again. It seemed like this crappy position he was sitting in wasn’t going to be the only thing bothering him from now on, Dean not looking forward to fighting off hallucinations at all, but it wasn’t like he had too much of a choice.

Sam had fallen asleep, but apparently Dean’s little freak-out moment managed to stir him from his sleep, as he was now making small and weak, barely even audible sounds while pawing at the other’s chest, the abrupt chill spreading across his skin like icy spiderwebs causing him to inhale sharply. Great job, Dean, waking up the poor kid just because you couldn’t keep your crazies to himself.

“Shh kiddo, it’s okay, I’m still here,” he assured softly when Sam began whining and pressing closer to him, clawing flimsily at his chest as if wanting to burrow himself inside it, to hide in the warmth and never come out, and Dean could understand. “I’m right here.” He very gently cupped the other’s chin after spending a second feeling around in the dark to find it, then lifted his brother’s head, using his other hand to map out Sam’s face and, once he’s found his cheek, he craned his neck and pressed a light, barely-there kiss on the somehow still incredibly soft skin. That seemed to calm him down, and Dean smiled, glad he still had it in him, had the same calming effect on his little brother as before; that Sam was still capable of feeling safe in his arms.

However that only lasted for about a minute—or was it five?—and then he was back to making some very strange sounds this time, immediately setting off some red-alarms in Dean’s head, because he recognized them, and Sam sounded like he was in pain, which obviously shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But the sudden jerks, they were new.

“Sammy?” His voice was screaming concern and a hidden panic, panic that was slowly slithering and wrapping its corrupt tendrils around Dean’s heart and making him think of the worst, every single worst-case scenario attacking his mind at the same time and leaving him dizzy with a gut-wrenching, raw fear. Sam was hunching forward, his breathing going out of control, his body contracting with each pained exhale, inhales rushed and sometimes followed by coughs that resembled gags instead, and he was suddenly sweating like crazy, Dean’s fingers coming away wet as he pressed a hand against the other’s forehead. Sam’s skin felt cold and clammy, and as he moved his hand down to the other’s face, he noticed that his brother’s own hands were now clasped over his mouth, muffling the wretched sounds and heaves he was making, and Dean cursed, only realizing what was going on in the last moment and barely having enough time to move out of the way and turn Sam away from him, before the kid fell forward and threw up on the ground.

His whole body was trembling, and if not for Dean’s hands holding him in place, he would have surely collapsed into the growing puddle of vomit he must have been producing. He really hoped his brother wasn’t throwing up blood, because that couldn’t mean anything good, but it wasn’t like he could or would check, so he’d just have blind faith and tell himself that Sam was fine. The sounds and the smell were pretty sickening, and suddenly he was feeling a wave of nausea hit him as well. It drained the blood from his face, but he just swallowed and continued stroking Sam’s back while telling him to let it all out, talking him through it, then when it was over, Dean pulled the kid back into his lap after shuffling away from where he imagined the vomit was, and used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his brother’s mouth.

And then Sam started sobbing again, and honestly, he kind of felt like joining him.

—

 

He hummed all of the songs from the AC/DC cassettes they had in the Impala, and in the middle of Highway to Hell, he noticed with a small smile that Sam had fallen back asleep.

—

 

The smell was awful, absolutely revolting. He was glad that Sam didn’t have to be bothered by it, the kid still sleeping soundly against his chest, but Dean was suffering. He thought of covering it up with mud, putting some on top of it, but in fear of actually reaching into the vomit, he never tried. But after a while, he found that burying his nose in his brother’s hair worked a bit, as the smell of sweat mixed with dried blood and the faintest hint of Sammy was still better than whatever the poor kid had thrown up only a few feet away from where they were.

Another problem Dean has been having for the past…who knows how long, was that he really needed to relieve himself. He hoped it wouldn’t be a problem, since he didn’t drink that much before leaving the cabin, but no, he was wrong, because the urge to piss was becoming stronger and stronger by each passing minute, but he really didn’t want to. First, because that would mean he’d have to move and rouse his brother from his sleep, again, and he didn’t have the heart to drag Sam back into this nightmare just yet. And second, he didn’t want to add to the stink already assaulting his nostrils, plus he might, with his amazing luck, actually end up kneeling into the vomit and add another decoration to his pants, which were already stiff and uncomfortable from all the blood caked on his thighs. All the blood that had seeped out of his brother’s ass…

Anyway, while the well was big enough that he could stretch his legs without his feet touching the other end of the wall, he didn’t want to risk anything. That being said, it was impossible to tell how long they’d be trapped down here, so sooner or later, Dean would probably be forced to move and dig a little hole which they would have to use as a makeshift toilet. But on the bright side, he only had to take a piss and not a number two. Now that would have been awkward, and very unpleasant.

To distract himself from wetting his pants, because holding that back wasn’t a walk in the park either, Dean began counting backwards from one thousand. He got to eight hundred and thirty-four, then had to hit the back of his head against the brick to stop the sudden urge to piss that left tiny beads of sweat on his temples when Sam, probably seeking more heat even in his sleep, pressed even closer to him, his bodyweight pushing against the other’s bladder and making the following few minutes Hell. He did get used to it after a while, though knew that he was treading on thin ice here, and another sleepy push or squirm from his little brother could very possibly be what would push Dean over the edge, which he really, really didn’t want to happen. So after what he believed was around four minutes, though was most probably only one, he was forced himself to unlatch Sam from around his body and sat him against the wall, but only after pulling the oversized shirt down so his brother would be sitting on the fabric instead of the dirt. From the lack of whimpers and wounded little sounds, he didn’t wake the other, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief at that achievement before standing up and placing one hand on the rough bricks.

Thankfully not stepping on his brother by accident this time, Dean found the spot where Sam emptied his stomach relatively quickly, and then drew a line around it with the tip of his shoe, marking it as the “You better not touch that” zone. After a moment of hesitation, he squatted down while holding his breath, then dug a hole next to the danger zone, using the removed earth as a lid to cover up the stench, actually quite surprised it worked and he could smell less of it after putting the dirt on top of the puddle. His brief feeling of triumph was short-lived, though, because now he would have to pull off something he couldn’t even do with a normal toilet—piss in the dark without missing. That was easier said than done, which sucked, because just imagining it was already making Dean have serious second thoughts about this, but he really had to go, and it wasn’t like his body could absorb it and maybe try to be helpful for once instead of burdening him, so with a heavy heart, he knelt before the hole and tugged his pants down.

It took him some time to relax and let it out, then even more contemplating if he should check around the hole for any wet spots, see if his aim was like that of a sniper’s or more like a beginner archer’s, but in the end he just tucked himself back, wiped his hands on his pants, then was about to go back to Sam when an idea struck him. He wanted to make sure of something, and now was the best time to do it. Turning toward the wall, he patted along it until he found a tiny space between two bricks where he could slide his fingers in, then another with his other hand, and gave climbing a try. And just as Dean dreaded, he barely got one or two feet above the ground before he slipped and landed right back where he started. The bricks were too moist and slippery, and there wasn’t enough room for his feet, meaning getting out of here this way was just wishful thinking, a dream made of blind hope after all.

Defeated, he carefully navigated though the darkness and went back to his brother, scooping him into his arms and sitting back down. With that possibility completely ruled out, how were they supposed to escape? Was this really it? Were they really just going to end up dying in a hole? No…they wouldn’t. He had to keep thinking positive, have hope for the two of them. That was his job as a big brother. If he gave up, if he let the hopelessness of their situation show too much, in his voice or actions, then Sam would shatter completely, and he couldn’t afford that. Dean couldn’t let him notice, let him know that they were most probably doomed to slowly rot away here, so he shut all the evil and foreboding whispers up, the tiny voices in the back of his head jeering at him, taunting him, telling him that he was going to die, but not before watching his precious baby brother wither away right in his arms. He tied the voices up and locked them in a box, around which he wrapped several thick chains, buried it in the deepest parts of his mind, and decided to never think of them ever again, instead wondering where John was and how long it would take him to notice his boys were gone.

—

 

Dean woke up to the sound of a ragged, unsteady voice. At first, he thought he was hallucinating again, this time hearing things, but then his eyes flew open because, one, when the hell did he even fall asleep, and two, the voice belonged to Sam and it was as if he was trying to say something.

“Sam? Hey, hey it’s okay, take it easy,” he whispered softly, scowling a bit when he realized his own voice didn’t seem to be working that well either, was hard to raise it above a whisper, but he ignored that and went back to cradling the kid, caressing along his jawline with a thumb. “Nice and slow, no need to force the words out.”

His brother sniffled, the action instantly followed by a whimper, then fumbled with something before curling in on himself, one hand gripping Dean’s shoulder as he buried his face in the crook of his neck, while the other—Dean patted around to find it—was holding the shirt, fingers curled tightly into it and only loosening slightly when he placed his hand over Sam’s. His body was stiff, tense, and Dean wondered if the poor thing was going to throw up again, when he heard a soft, beaten-down mumble, so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear it.

“Huuursh…”

His heart cracked and broke for the umpteenth time, because it didn’t take a genius to know what his brother was trying to say with a voice so worn and weak it sounded as if it’s gone a round with a wood chipper, and lost. “I know it does. Sam I… I know, and I’m so sorry,” he murmured against his little brother’s head, placing tender kisses on it while petting his hair.

Sam sighed slowly and painfully, stopping in the middle to cough and let out another whimper, then clutched his shirt tighter and shook his head. “..’uursh…” he whined with a silent sob, nails scraping the other’s skin desperately, as if begging Dean to make it stop, to make it all go away, and he would have loved to do nothing more, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do a damn thing to help his brother, and it was slowly killing him inside.

“Shh, I know it hurts, I know it’s horrible.” He caressed the nape of Sam’s neck, careful not to hurt him some more in the process. “But you can do it, I know you can. You won’t let the pain defeat you, because you’re the strongest person I know, stronger than even me, right? Remember the time you gave me such a bitchslap my cheek was red for like an hour afterward?” he asked with a fond smile that wavered, then wilted when he noticed he wasn’t getting any reaction out of his brother. Not a laugh, not even a smile; nothing. He just continued making these kicked puppy, distressed and pained sounds, body only shaken by occasional spasms instead of laughter, his unsmiling lips that were pressed against Dean’s neck wobbling.

He…didn’t know what to do. Wanted to throw his hands in the air and punch the wall, to scream and shout and cry, but instead just held his damaged little brother closer, rocking him back and forth while humming some random tune until Sam’s body turned lax, muscles gradually relaxing under Dean’s hands, the desolate whimpers finally dying down but not disappearing completely, just like the stabbing ache in his chest.

—

 

None of them slept anything after that, just sat there silently, awake for what had to be an hour, before Sam stirred and spoke again.

“Hungyyy…” he muttered with a soft whine, arms closing around the other’s neck pitifully, tentatively and pleadingly, but all Dean could do was hold his brother closer and gently nuzzle the top of his head.

“Yeah, I know,” he said dejectedly, could this time understand what Sammy was going through, because he was feeling the same way.

For around the past twenty or so minutes, Dean’s been possessed by such hunger and thirst that he was forced to start chewing on his lips, the need for nourishment making him desperate for anything he could swallow. He bit out pieces, albeit tiny, from the inside of his mouth and suckled on the wounds he made, rendered to drink his own blood like some fucking desperate vampire. The taste wasn’t too bad, at first, but all that copper on his tongue became too much after a while, only making him thirstier; however it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, so he just continued chewing until no woundless place remained on his tender flesh, until he tore a piece of skin off every inch of his lips and the inside of his cheeks. And while thanks to that the hunger subsided, in the end it always came back, haunting him with the obstinacy of a five years old.

Swallowing down yet another mix of blood and saliva, Dean licked his dry lips, not bothering to close his eyes as he dreamed of food.

 


	7. Keep Him Warm

 

He was so bored. Distracting himself was really becoming a challenge, the only form of entertainment in the bottom of the well being his own mind and imagination, which was slowly running out of fun scenarios to picture. Not like it mattered, really—whenever he thought of something nice and finally positive, the darkness of this place always seeped into his head, black smoke curling around his mind’s eyes and turning each daydream into a nightmare.

Fine, he thought to himself while sighing lightly, and lifted a hand to play with the smooth and silky, wet hair on the back of his brother’s neck instead, those thin and delicate strands left untouched by blood or mud, though damp with sweat. He twirled the hair around a finger, rubbed it between two, then slowly trailed his fingertip down Sam’s neck, causing the kid to shiver. That was when he realized that his brother hasn’t actually been shivering for a while now, which couldn’t mean anything good, so Dean quickly—well, as fast as someone who’s been sitting still for hours with his strength gradually draining—sat up straight and ran his hands along the other’s body, heart missing several beats when he noticed just how cold Sam was. He felt like a goddamn icicle, the poor kid’s fingers rigid and barely even able to bend anymore, and when Dean checked his pulse, he was horrified to find that it had slowed down. Sure, his brother’s heart wasn’t beating a hundred times per second now, didn’t feel like it was going to tear right through the other’s chest and bounce off the wall surrounding them, and that was great, but now it was barely beating twice per second, sometimes even feeling like it was out of rhythm. His breathing had slowed as well, all this time Dean just thinking that his brother had managed to calm down and that was the reason why he wasn’t panting anymore, but that wasn’t it, right?

Shallow breathing, tight muscles, slow pulse and no more shivering to keep the body warm. Sam’s system was giving up.

Sam was slowly freezing to death.

“Shit,” he cursed sharply, grabbing his brother’s shoulders and rubbing his arms, but Sam kept falling back or forward, unable to keep his balance, so after a while Dean just let the kid lean against his chest again while trying to warm him up. “Sammy? C’mon Sam, stay with me, move your arms a bit, here.” He took a hold of the other’s hand and rubbed it between his own, blowing hot puffs of air on it, then did the same to the other hand, before trying to move his brother’s arms, opening and closing them, but it was like he was playing with some wooden puppet. Sam didn’t react much, sounded like he was seconds away from losing consciousness, and when he did move on his own, it was sluggish and clumsy, as if he couldn’t control his body anymore.

Dean’s own pulse and breathing picked up though, like his body believed it could fix Sam by going into overdrive, like he could somehow merge with his brother and breathe for him, live for him. He was panicking, because this wasn’t fair. Dean was half naked, he had his shirt on Sammy, so why was the kid the first one to start suffering from hypothermia? Why couldn’t it be him instead, he was cold anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. He was expendable, didn’t give a rat’s ass if he had to sacrifice himself for Sam.

He would have given his body heat, his heart and soul over to that kid any day, so why? Why wasn’t anything working?

He tried; Dean rubbed his brother all over, careful when he felt a wound with his fingertip or when the other hissed as he accidentally pressed too hard on a bruise, but Sam was still cold as a corpse, and God no, he couldn’t lose him, just couldn’t. “Sammy please,” he begged for something, anything really. For his brother to show some signs of improvement, for him to talk some more, say something, to get better and stop bleeding, stop feeling so stiff and ice-cod against Dean’s hands like he was already dead.

But nothing. Sam only whimpered when the other’s rubbing hurt him, but aside from that stayed silent, sounding eerily calm, the passivity making Dean even more uneasy and frightened of what might happen if he, god forbid, wouldn’t manage to warm his brother up in time. Refusing to believe that the kid dying on his watch was even an option, had even a tiny one percent chance of it happening, Dean made a silent promise to both himself and Sam that he’d save him, get some heat in his dying body no matter what or how long it took.

“Think of a warm place, okay? Fire and marshmallows, hot cocoa. Imagine you’re under a thick, fluffy blanket. Feels nice, doesn’t it?” he whispered encouragingly and continued rubbing his brother’s body, however while he spoke slowly and softly, his mind was going a hundred miles per hour, a slight frown etched onto his face as he thought of and listed all the ways one could warm a body.

Alright, so one way had to be the exchange of body heat, but Sam has been pressed up against him for the past couple of hours and look at how much that helped. Another was creating friction, which he was doing right now by rubbing his brother all over, but that couldn’t possibly be enough to fix the other completely, so he still needed something else. Moving around should have been helpful as well, but since Sam was too weak and apparently out of it to move, that wouldn’t be possible. Changing position might work, too, so Dean gently grasped his brother’s hands and slipped them under the shirt, pulling him closer so Sam could curl in on himself and retain the little heat his freezing body was creating. That seemed to help a bit, and Sam was squirming again, the feeble sounds he began making as he very lightly nuzzled Dean’s neck a good sign, because at least now he wasn’t silent as the grave anymore. But he still wasn’t shivering, wasn’t going back to normal, and just when Dean considered stripping and giving Sam his pants as well, another idea hit him.

It was ridiculous. Considered illegal even, in some places. In all places, probably. It might scar his little brother even more, and he might hate it, might even try to fight back, but at this point, any movement would be welcome. Also, doing something like that right after Sam got raped…it would be extremely inconsiderate and disgusting, had the potential of bringing his poor brother to tears again, of the kid despising him after this. And Dean hated himself for even thinking about it, he really did, but he knew that would work. It had to, right? Something like that would definitely get the blood flowing, heat Sammy’s small body up for sure, could even distract him from the cold and pain and, maybe, make him feel something else. Make him feel good.

And while Dean would have loved to help his brother and make him feel pleasure instead of agony, he wasn’t sure if jerking the kid off was a good idea.

It would be him, doing it. First two strangers, and now Dean. Sam’s own big brother would be the one touching him, and he dreaded to think what that might do to the other, but he couldn’t deny that sexual stimuli could warm anyone’s body up in a matter of seconds. He knew that he would hate himself after this, the guilt won’t be able to leave him ever again, but if he could save Sam, if this could be the key to his baby brother’s survival, then he was ready to gamble on it. He was ready to risk his relationship with the kid to save him, for he might have been a selfish person, but losing the one thing he loved most in the world wasn’t worth keeping his hands clean for.

Hoping that Sam wouldn’t freak out too much, at least not mentally, Dean stopped rubbing the other’s body and instead wrapped an arm around him, while slowly sliding his hand between their chests, resting it against his brother’s thigh as he kissed his head. “I need you to listen to me right now, Sam,” he said in a low, apologetic voice, swallowing thickly when the small bundle of limbs in his arms stirred and snuffled against his neck, letting out a sound that probably meant that he was still more or less aware and could hear Dean. “I need to warm you up,” he continued, feeling the weight on his heart get heavier and heavier with each word, “and for that, I need to do something you really won’t like. I swear I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t necessary, but it is, because you’re slowly freezing, and because you’re also losing a lot of blood, the usual methods aren’t working that well anymore. So this won’t be nice. You’ll probably hate it, and I’m so sorry, but I need you to understand that this is something I must do, so just…try to focus on my hand, okay?”

Dean hesitated, nearly changed his mind when he heard Sam’s frightened whine, the poor kid surely confused by his warning, but then he forced his hand to move and slid it up his brother’s thigh until he reached something soft and small. Well, that’s what the cold does to the body, he thought as he carefully wrapped his fingers around his little brother’s dick and gave it a suggestive squeeze, shivering with remorse as Sam emitted a broken, high-pitched whimper. “I know, I know,” he whispered regretfully, holding onto the other as he withdrew his hands from the shirt and pressed them against Dean’s chest in a weak attempt to push him away, which wouldn’t have worked anyway, because he was leaning against the wall. His brother then squeaked faintly when Dean began massaging his dick, gently fondling it in his hand and noting with relief that the touching was working, the flesh slowly hardening from the attention while Sam wriggled in his lap, protesting sounds leaving him and trying to somehow crawl away, escape, but Dean didn’t let him. “Let go Sammy, let me take care of you. Shhh, it’s fine, just relax.” He planted one loving kiss after another on his brother’s forehead while the kid’s face was in front of his, then just continued kissing him on the head when Sam lowered it, all the while whispering to him. “C’mon, forget about everything and listen to my voice, focus on me only, on my hand, feel how nice and warm it is.”

He had to stroke the other for a long time before Sam reached full hardness, but when he did, his brother’s hips began jerking tentatively, the hands that were pushing at Dean’s chest gliding shakily moving up to his shoulders and gripping them. “…’eeaaan…” he cried softly, whimpering when the other nudged his cheek with his nose before kissing it, Dean praising and encouraging his brother some more while placing tender kisses all across his cheek and ear, Sam’s back arching and hips bucking when he began nibbling on an earlobe.

“There you go, good boy,” he breathed into the other’s ear, surprisingly drawing a little moan from him. It was working. Sam was back to shivering and was moving nonstop now, rolling his hips and repeating Dean’s name between tiny whimpers, the skin on his back burning where Dean slipped a hand under the shirt. That wasn’t the only warm part of Sam’s, the flesh in his hand hot and heavy against his palm, the skin smooth and pretty nice, his brother’s cock twitching and pulsing as he stroked it with drawn-out moves that seemed to slowly drive the other crazy. He mewled sweetly, hands trembling as he held onto Dean’s shoulders and thrust into the fist encircling him, the movement on top of him resulting in his own cock hardening as well, and fuck, he was getting hard from listening to Sam and touching him. He felt like laughing, because what kind of sick fuck was he, but instead just sped up and began pumping his brother’s erection while hating himself just that little bit more.

“‘eaaan…!” Sam moaned miserably and somewhat needily, throwing his head back, and as if on cue, Dean immediately moved his lips that were on his brother’s ear to his throat, gingerly kissing and licking at the skin and tasting blood on his tongue when he very lightly, like a feather’s caress, trailed it along the linear wound there. His baby brother was now completely out of it, shuddering mewls and loud, wanton whimpers pouring past his lips as he panted, bucking hopelessly and fisting one hand in Dean’s short hair as if urging him on, though that was probably just him thinking that, because apparently he liked touching his own brother who’s been raped less than a day ago.

Dean was sure they had a special place in Hell for people like him.

“Sam, Sammy, that’s it,” he groaned, his own hips jerking slightly in response to Sam’s obscene mewls that went straight to his cock. “Doin’ so good, baby boy, must look so beautiful right now.” He licked a wet, hot stripe up the other’s neck, Sam letting out a quiet sob and freezing at the words, so Dean continued littering his brother’s neck with kisses that meant everything, while speeding up his strokes, twisting his wrist and thumbing the weeping slit as he mumbled against the other’s skin, “Always so gorgeous to me, Sammy. Can’t ever be not beautiful, not even if you tried, not even like this. Best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that, right? You’re perfect, in every single goddamn way. My perfect little brother.”

He sucked on the spot beneath the other’s chin as Sam sniffled and let out a pitiful little mix of a whine and a moan, it coming out uneven and so broken, but the kid tightened his hold on Dean and hugged him with all the strength he must’ve had, which had him cursing and suddenly needing more. Without thinking, he pulled out his hand from the shirt and tangled his fingers in his brother’s hair, pumping Sammy’s cock so much harder, alternating between rough and fast, and long and hard, teasing strokes as he kissed his way up to the other’s lips, before kissing that too, then licked into his mouth. Sam’s gasp was muffled, and so was his panicked whimper as Dean kissed him sweetly, tasting so much blood while swirling his tongue around his brother’s, anger bubbling in him again as he very gently licked along the empty spots where the kid’s incisors used to be. He hoped those motherfuckers were in Hell, turning into demons just so he could summon them and kill them one more time.

Dean relished in all the moans his brother made, swallowed and drank them greedily, his mouth latched onto Sam’s like an insatiable leech, refusing to let go. He kissed the other passionately, desperately and affectionately, poured all of his heart into it, and when, after a long while, his brother actually licked his tongue and bashfully kissed him back, Dean couldn’t help but smile against the other’s lips, barely even able to comprehend what was happening. But somehow, he felt happy; like something that’s been missing from his life without his knowledge was suddenly put into place, filling a hole that Dean’s been living with all this time, learned to live with and accept that it was there, but now it wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of something electric and shimmering, radiating, so much that he felt as if his chest was going to burst from it all. But then he was abruptly yanked back into reality as Sam opened further under his mouth and let out a loud keen, muscles convulsing slightly as he came, Dean feeling the hot spurts of come landing on his stomach and trickling down his hand. He groaned, panting together with his brother because he almost came in his pants right then, the sounds and the sensations too much for him, but he didn’t, so he tried willing his erection away while kissing and licking Sam’s lips clean of any remaining blood, before pulling him close, hand still on the other’s cock and caressing it until it began softening. Afterward, he removed his hand and suckled on his come-coated fingers, using Sam’s come to assuage his hunger, then gathered the fluid slowly cooling on his stomach and swallowed that too, the slightly bitter, salty-sweet taste a nice change from the metallic flavor lingering in his mouth. Well, at least as long as he didn’t think about what the taste actually was, which he tried not to, because eating his own little brother’s come was not something Dean felt like reflecting or priding himself on.

On the bright side, though, both of them were sweating and feeling hot, body nice and warm, so at least Dean managed to avoid witnessing—well, with his remaining four senses—a tragic turn of events. He took a deep breath, kind of regretting it because the well stunk of urine, vomit, sweat and come, then hugged his brother, who nestled close in his arms, snuggling up to him. “Feeling better…?” he asked warily after a long moment of silence, of only the both of them breathing, and had to smile again when Sam nodded against his shoulder where he was resting his head. “Great. Now try to move around a bit, don’t let the cold get to you again.”

His brother made a sound resembling a huff and wiggled around a bit, fidgeting for around one minute before giving up and just going back to lying against the other’s chest, arms wrapped around Dean’s neck and ticklish air as Sammy breathed through his nose drifting lightly along his skin. Sighing, he trailed one hand up to the nape of his brother’s neck and caressed it lazily with his thumb, wondering if he just made an unforgivable, irreparable mistake.

He has touched Sam in the most intimate way, in his most vulnerable state, and got hard from it. He had an erection even now, though he was trying real hard to ignore it, ignore the want and lust he was harboring toward his own little brother. Shame didn’t even come close to what he was feeling, and honestly, he would have deserved it if Sam never forgave him for this. Because sure, the kid seemed like he was enjoying it with all those ecstatic and needy moans he made, sounds that sent blood rushing to Dean’s cock, but his brother was in no state of mind to say no. His situational judgment was probably shot to hell, his reflexes—both mental and physical—were as fast and efficient as that of a sloth’s on marijuana, and in the weak, ruined bodily condition he was in, it would have been impossible for him to refuse someone as strong as Dean, especially after getting hard. So in other words, Dean pretty much took advantage of his brother’s situation, and while initially it was only because he wanted to help, when he began licking and kissing Sam, it became pretty clear that helping wasn’t the only thing on his mind. The kid was high on pleasure, mind fuzzy and unable to create one sane, coherent thought from all that had happened to him, and what did Dean do? He kissed him.

And wasn’t that just another form of rape…?

Forcing his kiss on Sam while stroking his cock. Yeah, definitely had a rapey vibe to it. And maybe the worst was that remembering his brother’s petal soft lips, along with the adorable sounds he made and the way he moved in Dean’s hands, brought his dick to life again, his erection straining against his pants on which, by the way, Sam was sitting unsuspectingly and peacefully. Well, maybe not that unsuspectingly, because he was pretty sure his brother could feel his bulge, though hoped to god that he was wrong. Sammy was so warm now. Like a hot water bottle, and was acting like some tiny puppy, pressing every single one of his limbs against Dean and resting his head on his shoulder, nose softly poking his neck. It made him want to kiss his brother again, but that was wrong.

He couldn’t do that ever again, shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but while he could blame that on the heat of the moment, his only reason for doing it again would be because he wanted it. And he shouldn’t want something like that, nobody should, so he was sick and wrong for longing for it anyway. He should be just contenting himself with being able to hold his brother, his alive brother in his arms, so that’s what he strived to do from now.

He pressed a finger against the pulse on Sam’s neck and closed his eyes, counting the beats and making his mind up to focus on his brother’s wellbeing instead of his own dilemmas, because his problems paled in comparison to the other’s, plus protecting him came before anything. Before Dean’s own life, before saving the world, before giving a fuck about anyone else or what they thought. That’s been his mission ever since he ran out of that burning house with Sammy in his arms, wasn’t it? That was Dean’s main reason for living, for not biting the bullet just yet.

To keep him safe.

 


	8. Despair

 

He was feeling nauseous and hungry at the same time. What kind of twisted curse was that?

Dean wondered, with his head leaning against the brick wall and gazing up into more nothingness, pure black wherever he looked, if a day had gone by. He couldn’t quite tell, not even with the help of his biological clock, especially since the darkness and the cold had made him doze off a couple of times, each time making it more difficult to keep up with the minutes. Though down here, even if he could’ve kept himself awake, it wouldn’t really have mattered, not with the way every passing second felt drawn-out and seemingly stretching out forever. Maybe only a few hours have passed. Maybe he slept for so long that a few days have gone by. Who knows? It wasn’t like when he opened his eyes, Dean saw any changes. Everything was always the same; the only way he could check that time was actually moving was whenever Sam changed positions in his lap when he woke up. His little brother was his clock, was really the only thing he had left now.

Well, the only thing aside from his bodily urges. He unfortunately couldn’t escape those. None of them could.

He was getting hungrier and hungrier, that piece of information also helping him with keeping up with the time. The more he starved, he assumed, the more time had passed. And now he has gone back to chewing on his lips, so yeah, he supposed his hypothesis of one day going by while they were trapped down here was, sadly, correct. Hunger and the occasional surge of thirst—which he tried to quench by drinking some more of his blood, and while that still wasn’t really helping, he continued because he got strangely addicted to the metallic taste—weren’t the only sensations bothering him, though. It wasn’t too long before he was beginning to feel a bit dizzy, then moments later his stomach made a horrible sound, some sort of mix of a croak and a rumble, before the first wave of nausea hit him.

After that, his already harrowing stay in this damned pit became worse, as if he’s been dragged from Hell to someplace even more excruciating than its predecessor.

He scrunched up his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to block the sick feeling out, ignore the way it rippled through him, swirled inside and slithered across his bones, making him sweat, and he was pretty sure he could feel his pulse in his stomach. It wasn’t all that pleasant. Felt a lot like when he ate that taco which turned out to be more than a week’s old, Dean accidentally misreading the expiration date on it, though at least now he wasn’t overcome by the unbeatable need to shit like a waterfall. He was rather sure none of them would’ve survived that, if Dean would have added stinking crap to the rich fragrance that was already filling the well. The stench of piss was stronger now, as not too long ago Sam had made it very clear that he needed to take a leak by whining and squirming; and wetting Dean’s pants. Thank god it was only a small drop and he managed to maneuver his brother to what he now called their “toilet hole”, though it wasn’t an easy task with Sam falling over and over again, seemingly unable to stand up, and after a thorough checkup of the other’s legs, Dean noted with yet another rush of grim sorrow and seething rage that one of the kid’s ankles was swollen, standing at an alarming angle. He just kept discovering more and more wounds, injuries, and each time he felt something deep inside of him crumbling.

But getting used to the smell was only hard, not infeasible, so he doubted that’s why he was feeling like hurling every other minute. It was probably just the overwhelming hunger, mixed with all the blood he had swallowed and the almost constant fear and anxiety, of worry toward his brother and this fucked-up situation they were in. Ah yes, all that worrying had to be what was twisting and churning his stomach like some giant whirlpool, especially because ever since he had touched Sam, guilt has been eating away at him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, about his brother’s smooth skin and lips, and he wanted to get a taste again, but that was not going to happen. Fortunately the kid was warm again, and Dean continued to keep him warm by huddling together and rubbing his arms and back, gently of course. Kissing him or jerking him off to heat his body was out of the question, and he knew that, but that didn’t really stop him from fantasizing about it. Each little daydream ended with Sam even more ruined than before, though, with him shouting and glaring at Dean, for even in his fantasies, he deserved to be despised for the self-centered jerk he was. Someone who laid their hands on their little brother, in their weakest state, didn’t deserve a happy ending, not even in their dreams.

Thankfully, by some miracle, Sam wasn’t crawling out of his lap and curling up somewhere far away from him. It was probably because his brother was only halfway here, barely aware of his surroundings or of what was happening, but that was good enough. More than enough for Dean, who was immensely glad he could still hold his baby brother in his arms, selfishly enjoying whatever time they had left together…

Which, judging by the way he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, wasn’t going to last too long.

Dean wasn’t stupid. He was delusional, and denial was practically his middle name, but he had a sharp brain. Not as much as Sam’s, however good enough to recognize a situation’s fatality when he was plopped right into it, when it was staring him right in the face. Rubbing his brother and warming him up was helping him some too, as he was relentlessly moving his hands up and down the other’s body, however Dean has also been sitting on the wet earth all this time, and it was starting to show its effects. His pants were uncomfortable and moist from the mud clinging to it, his ass probably frozen by now, and his upper body was completely bare—and while on one side, against his chest was something soft and warm, the damp and cold bricks of the wall were pressed against his back and making him shiver. Dean was, has been for the last, well, maybe an hour, shivering and sweating, had enough brain cells left to realize that his body had begun succumbing to hypothermia as well. He recognized the symptoms, the rapid heartbeat and breathing which, if he didn’t do something about this, would soon slow and then ultimately stop.

But what was he supposed to do? There was only one thing that could warm him up instantly, but he refused to even consider it. He wasn’t going to just whip out his dick and jack off with Sam on top of him. He has scarred the kid enough for a lifetime, so no way. Dean would just look for another way, any other way that didn’t involve subjecting his brother to more overly-sexual scenarios. He wasn’t sure what yet, but he’d figure it out.

For now, he contented himself with gritting his teeth together to stop them from chattering and hugging his brother, who was sleeping soundly against him. Checking his pulse, Dean was glad to feel Sam’s warmish skin and steady pulse against the pad of his finger. Kid wasn’t cold, or completely warm either, he just felt normal. Though that might also have been because Dean’s fingers had basically turned into popsicles, but anyway, as long as Sam wasn’t cold as snow like last time, he wasn’t worrying. Actually, he should be much more concerned about his own health right now, as his limbs were getting slightly harder to lift and move now, sometimes just flopping down and onto the dirt, where Dean would glare at the darkness where he assumed his uncooperative hand lay, before raising it back to stroke his brother. It was true, controlling his body was becoming a tad bit more difficult, but he was much taller and had more muscle on him than Sam, had a stronger immune system and was generally in better shape, so he doubted that he’d shut down anytime soon. That didn’t mean that it wouldn’t happen, so he’d have to be prepared for that moment, think up a battle plan to fight the cold and death, the polar bears of justice that would try to smother him with their fur. But their fur would be warm, wouldn’t it? So how would they kill him with their icy powers…?

Dean blinked, shaking his head and slapping his cheeks. Alright, so he was slowly losing his mind, too. Great. He had no time for lunacy, to let his mind drift, apparently even less time than he expected. He couldn’t put this off any longer, had to come up with a way to warm himself up before it was too late. Would rubbing his own body work? He’d create friction, plus he’d be moving his limbs unlike Sam, who was just a sack of potatoes while Dean tried to warm him up, so that might prove to be useful. He could also get up and jump in place a bit, but for that he’d have to put his little brother back on the ground, and he didn’t quite fancy that idea. What about getting Sam to kiss his neck? His lips were only inches away from it, anyway.

Yeah, right. Nice thought, but not happening. Maybe he’d do the first two. Rub his body, then place his brother gently against the wall and do some quick jumps. Shouldn’t be too hard, and he wouldn’t have to do anything sexual. A win-win situation, which he’d put into action right now, because the sooner the better. Right now. Or maybe just a bit later.

After he took a short nap…

—

 

He was in a field covered in snow, it crunching crisply under his shoes as he walked forward, wandering around until he reached a single, fully leafed tree. For some reason, he got this odd urge to climb it, so he did, but the further up he went, the darker and colder it got. The leaves grew and turned black, looming over him and blocking out any and all sunlight that tried to penetrate the shadowy dome, and he felt a piercing, biting shiver run down his spine as a howling wind rustled the leaves, but he kept going. He kept climbing, because he had to, felt the overpowering need to get to the top no matter what, but the branches just kept coming, the exit nowhere to be seen. Horror coursed through his veins, however he was also filled with determination, not letting anything stop him from reaching the light and feel it on his skin once again, his skin which was suddenly freezing as another gust of wind woke the leaves from their slumber, this time the chill enveloping his whole body and turning it into shimmering ice, and it was so cold, so very cold…

And then suddenly he was back in the well, needing a long moment for his hazy mind to follow him and settle back to reality, and then another to comprehend what was going on.

Sam was gone. No, not gone. His brother had apparently slipped down from his chest because Dean’s arms weren’t around him any longer, but were instead lying uselessly at his sides. His whole upper body was freezing without Sammy leaning against him, and it took him an alarming amount of effort to move his body and reach for his brother who was making some whimpery sounds on the ground, then pull him back into his lap.

He then immediately stilled, hands tightening around Sam’s waist, because the shirt was completely soaked with sweat.

“Sammy…?” he whispered, couldn’t have even raise his voice higher than a whisper if he wanted to, he felt so tired and drained. Blinking into the darkness, Dean forced his hands to pat the other down, apprehension and panicked distress tugging at his gut and spreading through him as he noticed just how clammy his brother’s skin was, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead, but this shouldn’t be happening. It was all wrong, and Dean didn’t get it, his mind too slow to work out an answer to this situation, because Sam didn’t feel like he was freezing. His skin was cool when Dean touched it, but it wasn’t as bad as the last time, and then the kid wasn’t sweating so profusely either, didn’t feel like someone had poured a bucket of frosty water over him. Trying not to freak out, but obviously failing, he slid his hands down and patted around clumsily until he managed to get a hold of the other’s wrist, then pressed his thumb down, waiting, but when he felt how fucking out of control Sam’s heartbeat was, he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved of terrified, because while it thankfully wasn’t slow, the beats were way too rapid to be normal.

He cursed, over and over again, then moved his hands to his brother’s face, pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together. “Sammy, come on, don’t do this. You’re not cold anymore, so what’s wrong? Please, Sam…” He swallowed back the desperate emotions that clotted his throat and heart, and listened to his baby brother’s uneven breathing, slow and shallow little exhales barely reaching Dean’s skin even though they were so close to each other, so very close it was impossible to miss how Sam appeared to have trouble breathing. His inhales were ragged, exhales short and silent, and he had stopped whimpering too, no sounds leaving him anymore aside from some of the rougher inhales.

Fear gripped Dean tight, clawing at his own lungs and making it so hard to breathe, to stop himself from breaking down when he hugged Sam close but the kid didn’t react whatsoever, arms hanging limply at his sides, and after another shuddery curse, he couldn’t keep it in anymore and let the tears flow free. This was it, wasn’t it? This was how he was going to lose his brother. He got it now, understood what was going on, but it’s not like it mattered anyway. Sam was slowly, has been all this time, dying from blood loss, but Dean completely ignored it. Because it was such a slow process, he only focused on the more visible problems, like keeping the kid warm. How could he forget about all that blood? He was a fucking retard, that’s how. He didn’t pay attention, and now Sam couldn’t even support himself anymore, was barely breathing, and there was nothing, not a damn thing Dean could do to fix it. Not this. He couldn’t do shit this time, so he let the sobs shake his body, warm tears rolling down his cheeks and cooling seconds later, causing him to shiver, something he hasn’t been doing in a while, and he smiled. Good. Maybe like this, he wouldn’t need to watch as Sammy died in his arms. Maybe he’d give into the cold first, selfishly leaving this world before the other, because he just couldn’t bear it, wouldn’t be able to hold the kid’s corpse without experiencing something so much worse than death. Though maybe the loss would just kill him before the cold…

With shaking hands, he tipped Sam’s head back and pressed a long, hopeless kiss on the other’s chin, breath slightly hitching when his brother stirred. “S-Sammy?” he asked with a sniffle, voice breaking and out of tune, completely ruined by the tears and sorrow. He cupped his brother’s face, cradling it like it was the most delicate, precious thing in the world, then took in a shaky breath, mumbling against the other’s lips, “You’re the only one, Sam. The only one that’s keeping me alive, only one that kept me going all this time, so please. Please, I’m begging you…please don’t leave me.” More tears poured from his eyes and gathered where their lips met, Dean licking the salty liquid from Sam’s slightly parted ones as he tried to keep his voice under control, in vain. “You can’t, okay? C’mon Sam, you…you can’t leave. Can’t do this to me, I wouldn’t survive. I wouldn’t want to. Even if I somehow got out of this alive, I’d just wanna die and be with you. Oh f-fuck, please, Sammy, I can’t… I can’t do this without you. Please, please, Sammy…please…” He sobbed, unable to control it anymore and just broke down crying, fingers curling in the other’s hair as he pressed their lips together, kissing his brother with all of his desperation, imploring him through the kiss to stay forever, to not give in and to fight just a bit longer.

Dean knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was probably hurting his brother, kissing him way too hard, but he was too overwhelmed, only focusing on keeping Sam here, with him, together, and then suddenly he was crying even more, because the lips under his were moving and returning the kiss, and he never wanted this moment to end, ever. His shoulders, no, whole body shook with sobs as he licked into Sam’s mouth, their tongues meeting and tentatively caressing each other like two lovers touching for the first time, Dean deepening the kiss after a moment, needing everything, greedily sucking and licking and taking whatever he could, while he could.

Then he softened it, gradually slowing down before stopping, because Sam had stopped responding and wasn’t moving anymore.

“No…” Dean held his brother close, squeezing him and kissing his shoulder between whispers and promises, pleas, more tears leaking out from closed eyes. A dull headache was forming in his temples from all the violent crying, but he didn’t care and just kept sobbing until his eyes turned dry, until they stung and even blinking caused him pain. He cried and cried, then cried some more, then got exhausted and let his body go lax, waiting for the cold to take him away too, to fall asleep and never wake up again.

And after a while, his wish must have come true, because through his closed eyes he could see a bright light shining down on him, and a faint, peaceful smile crossed Dean’s face, happily welcoming Death as he finally drifted off, letting the brilliant glow wash over him and swallow him up.

 


	9. Sleeping Beauty

 

Warmth.

What he’s been seeking for so long was enveloping him, running through his very veins, making him feel as if his body has been lowered into a hot bath, as if he was floating on the surface of the pleasantly warm water while lustrous sunlight was dancing across his skin, tingling and caressing it. He felt at ease, finally calm and without worries, suspended in this gentle moment for what seemed like an eternity before he began hearing things.

The silence of this hazy trance was penetrated by several sounds that very slowly seeped into his consciousness, starting with something repetitive and high-pitched, and followed by muffled voices, shuffling and fumbling sounds, and then nothing again. It was as if he had one foot in his relaxing dream world, and another foot somewhere else, a place filled with life and movement all around him. The calm beckoned him, crooning enticingly, while the sounds prodded at his curiosity and shook his nerves back to life, firing them up until his finger twitched, that simple movement cracking and shattering the reverie trying to keep him unconscious, intensifying the luminous glow of the sun until that was all he could see.

Dean cracked his eyes open, squinting into the blinding light. It took him a moment to realize that the sun wasn’t actually trying to fry his eyeballs, and another to take in his new surroundings. Gradually, his brain woke from its rest and helped him make out where he was. First, the bright light wasn’t actually that intense, but apparently his eyes have become so used to the darkness that the tiniest bit of radiance seemed too much for them. In fact, there barely was any light in the room he was in, only a few fain rays making their way in through the gaps of the blinds mounted on the windows to his left. The second thing he noticed was that he was lying in a bed. The warmth he was feeling must have come from the thick blanket draped over his body, and after blinking a good amount and glancing down at himself, he saw a transparent, thin tube sticking out of one of his arms, its other end attached to a bag hooked onto a pole. An IV bag, he thought still a bit dazedly, mind hazy as he continued looking around the room. There were a few cables hooked onto a machine next to him, the steady beeping coming from there, and it didn’t take him much to figure out they were electrode wires monitoring his heart rate. Aside from those, nothing else was attached to his body, and he trained his eyes on the furniture of the room—a chair and table next to the bed, some cabinets and counters opposite him, and a sofa with two wool blanket stacked on each other to the right—before letting out a small sigh and melting into the comfort of the bed, letting his eyes slip shut and maybe go back to sleep.

Then everything came back to him, and Dean nearly tore the IV needle out of his arm as his eyes flew open and his body jolted in shock, in panic and horror, the shrill sound as the beeping of the machine sped up barely audible over his screams and shouts.

“Sam?! Where is Sam? Where’s my brother?!” he yelled frantically as nurses poured into the room, their faces distorted masks of concern and sympathy, their voices serene but serious and commanding as they tried to hold him down, but Dean wouldn’t let them. One of them took out a syringe, so he kicked the woman in the knee, thrashing and bellowing, demanding to see his brother right this instance, but they only ignored him and tried to calm him down. Another one was saying something, but he didn’t care, wasn’t in the mood to hear any bullshit, because where was Sammy? Was he okay? Was he still alive? What happened, damn it, he couldn’t remember what happened after he closed his eyes, before waking up here, but he needed to know.

He grunted as something sharp entered his neck, stinging him, and then kept on shouting for around four more seconds before the sedative those fuckers gave him kicked in, and his body slowly went limp, his exasperated yells turning into incoherent mumbles as he was once again dragged down into the quiet void of unconsciousness.

—

 

This time when he opened his eyes, Dean wasn’t alone.

Groaning, he stirred in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them with his hand that wasn’t attached to an incapacitated arm with an IV line sticking out of it, before opening them and blinking around the room. The sedative knocked him out good, as now the room was lit by the tasteless, pale blue fluorescent lights on the ceiling, the windows behind the blinds as if painted over with a pitch black color it was so dark outside.

“Dean,” he heard someone say, the voice gruff and familiar, and as he whipped his head to the right, he looked into the bloodshot eyes of his father sitting in the chair near the bed. “How are you feeling, son?”

His mouth bobbed like a fish’s, opening and closing wordlessly as he stared at John. Then, shaking his head and averting his eyes, forcing down the urge to burst into tears like a pathetic child, he took a deep breath and hoped to keep a more or less even voice as he said, “I’m…I’m fine. Living and breathing.” Then he braced himself and looked back at his father, who seemed like he hasn’t showered or slept in days, dreading to ask the question, but needing to know the answer. “Sam…”

John’s expression turned the rest of the words to dust in his mouth, Dean seconds away from having another fit and trashing the place when a glint of pain flooded the man’s brooding eyes, covering them with a veil of tears of his own.

He leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and leveled the other with a grim look. “He’s alive,” he said, and Dean immediately sat up in the bed, eyes wide and hopeful, but his father quickly raised a hand to halt the boy’s sudden joy, “but it’s not looking good. He’s hanging on by a thread.”

“But he’ll make it, right?” Dean asked, tone somewhat pleading as he stared at John, because Sammy was alive, so maybe there was a God after all.

His father’s silence was like a heavy weight on his heart and soul, crushing them more and more with each passing second, and just as he was about to crawl out of the bed and fucking shake the man so he’d start speaking, John finally took a deep breath, visibly clenching his jaw before gazing at Dean. “Do you know what they did to him?”

The question took him by surprise, and he could feel bile and sorrow building up inside him as he nodded despondently. “They…beat him. And raped him. Mutilated him.”

Another moment of silence, then, “Yes.” John sighed, and it sounded painfully defeated and empty, but then his voice hardened as he continued. “The doctor said it’s a miracle that he hasn’t given in to the shock yet. I could barely keep up with the list of damages he mentioned. Sam… The kid must’ve gone through Hell. He’s got a split lip, broken nose, a black eye. It’s completely swollen shut, like he’s been stung by some radioactive wasp. His whole face and body is covered in bruises and wounds, many deeper than they seemed at first glance, causing some internal damages as well. One of his ankles is severely sprained, so bad that they needed to put a cast on it. Then there’s…” His voice trailed off, John’s features darkening as he furrowed his brow into a brief scowl. “The teeth. All eight of his incisors are gone. The doctor said they must have been knocked out instead of pulled out. His kidneys have also stopped working from blood loss and ‘hypovolemic shock’ which was mainly caused by all the blood leaving from the wounds on his body and…from inside him. Apparently a number of sharp objects must have been inserted into his rectum and…messed it up. Tore and mangled his flesh.”

When John was done talking, his shoulders slouched and he ran his hands through the short nest of brown strands atop his head, ruffling and gripping them as he sat there in silence, while Dean just felt like throwing up. They shoved things up Sam’s ass? It wasn’t enough that they raped him, but they also had to… God, he felt so sick and angry, only realized after a moment that his hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists and growled. “I should’ve gutted them. Cut them open and strangled them with their own entrails, that’s what I should’ve fucking done!”

“I found two shallow graves behind the shack,” John said all of a sudden, and even though Dean wasn’t looking at the man, he could feel the pair of suspicious eyes burning a hole in him. “Was that your doing?”

“Yeah, it was,” he stated without hesitation, raising his gaze to glower at his father. “Why, do you disapprove?”

But John shook his head, the righteous man gone as he said lowly, “Wish I could’ve ended them myself.”

Dean watched his father, both of them hurting and possessing a lot of pent-up rage at this moment, but instead of raising his voice and shouting, he simply hissed, “Where were you, then? Why the fuck didn’t you get there sooner?”

The man narrowed his eyes, back straightening. “I can’t be in two places at once. I tried to get back as soon as possible when I got the call from Sam, but don’t you dare put this on me. You were supposed to keep an eye on your brother while I was gone.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t be gone for that long! Hasn’t that ever occurred to you?” Dean snapped, turning in the bed to glare at his father, who did so right back at him.

“No, it didn’t, because I trusted you to take care of Sam! I had faith in my sons to look out for each other, so tell me, Dean—how did your little brother end up getting beaten and raped on your watch?!” he spat and got out of the chair, beginning to pace and stomp around the room as they shouted at each other.

“He wasn’t supposed to get hurt! And he wouldn’t have gotten hurt if only you were a better father. Who the fuck leaves their kids in a cabin in the middle of the forest that’s, by the way, also where a pair of rapist lunatics live?!”

“How was I supposed to know that?” John threw his hands in the air in frustration before gripping the metal rail on the foot end of the bed, grip tight as he snarled. “I did everything I could. Everything! Dropped the hunt and drove straight back to the cabin, then searched the woods until I found your phone lying on the ground. I even got Bobby to help out, poor man receiving a bullet to the leg when that psycho came at us from the shack. And when I finally found you at the bottom of that wretched well, both of you were unconscious and cold, and I _rushed_ you two to the hospital! I am the reason you and your brother are still alive, so don’t you tell me that this is on me, blame it on my job as your father!”

“But it is you! It’s always you, because you’re the one unable to let go of mom!” Dean almost screeched, his body tense, ready to fight John right now if he needed to. “You’re the one who keeps dragging us cross-country while hunting monsters, the one forcing this abnormal lifestyle on us and making our lives miserable; the one preventing us and mainly Sam, who fucking deserves it, from having a normal life!”

“Don’t bring your mother into this, Dean Winches—”

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want! She’s gone, dad! She’s dead, so why can’t you just move on like any sane person would and stop chasing after demons?! Why do you have to ruin everything? This would have never, ever happened if only we could be like everyone else. Who the fuck drags his kids into this disgusting world, anyway? Why couldn’t you just go off on a suicide mission alone and leave me and Sam out of this shit?!”

“That’s enough, boy!” John bellowed, nostrils flaring as he strode around the bed and looked like he was a second away from slapping Dean, who merely snarled at him, daring, fucking daring him to hit him, when the door to the room opened and both of them looked at the middle-aged, short man in a white coat as he walked in and gave Dean a cursory glance before gazing at John.

“Mr. Winchesters, please. Your son is still recovering, so could you leave the family issues for later?” he asked with a polite smile, stepping aside and motioning toward the open door. “I’d like to have a few words with the young Winchester here, so if you may…”

Looking between the doctor and Dean, John finally sighed, closing his eyes and nodding, then walked past the man standing in the middle of the room and left. Once they were alone, Dean gave the doctor a wary look and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. He was in his not-trusting-anyone mood, and the man’s mole-like looks made him even more suspicious in his eyes. “I’m fine, so if you’re here to check up on me, you can be on your way out. I’m not the one needing help, but my brother.”

Only smiling at his sourness, the doctor calmly made his way to the chair and sat down, eyeing Dean for a short moment before pushing up the spectacles on his nose. “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through right now, all that waiting and worrying without being able to do anything. Telling bad news to those that are here because their loved ones have been in an accident is awful, the worst part of being a doctor, so believe me, this doesn’t come easy for me. And while I would love to say that your brother doesn’t need any more help, that he’s recovering, I won’t do that. I don’t want you to worry anymore, as I know what that does to patients, so I’ll tell you what I’ve told your father. But I won’t sugar-coat it.”

“Good, I don’t need no lies or bullshit. I just want to know if Sam will make it,” he stated while frowning at the doctor, his expression fierce and demanding, but inside he was terrified, feeling like a scared little kid, his stomach folding in on itself in dreadful anticipation. He just wanted to hug his brother, right now. Wanted to hold Sam in his arms, needed to feel his warmth and weight against him, has become dependent on it.

He just wanted his little brother…was that too much to ask for?

The doctor nodded slowly, then glanced at the heart rate monitor next to the bed before giving the other a solemn look. “Your brother has been brought to us in horrible conditions. He had lost a copious amount of blood and his system was shutting down from it, along with the moderate case of hypothermia that you also had. Thankfully that, and a few bruises were the only injuries you suffered, unlike Sam, who hasn’t woken up since the two days you both have been brought to our hospital. Neither is he showing any signs of wanting to wake up. He has coded twice, but has been quiet ever since. We managed to stitch him up, put a cast on his ankle and ice on his swollen eye which is going down nicely, wrapped him in bandages. However there isn’t much we can do about the damages he received to his anus. We have applied ointments and cleaned the anal canal the best we could, are feeding him a cocktail of medications through an IV infusion, but I’m afraid we cannot do more. Normally, we’d perform a surgery on patients with anal fissure, but…” He paused, a troubled and somewhat apologetic look crossing his face, eyebrows drawing together. “Sam’s anal muscle is already filled with wounds, so cutting into it to lessen the pressure would only backfire.”

Dean stared at the light green floor as he took all of that in, as he processed all that information, but in the end, instead of giving in to the anguish those words made him experience, he just gazed back at the doctor. “What do you mean he’s not showing signs of wanting to wake up? Is he in a coma or something?” he asked, now not even trying to hide the alarm in his voice anymore.

“Yes, he is, and he doesn’t seem to be responding to any stimuli either. Though coma patients usually don’t move a muscle no matter what we do,” the doctor said, making hand motions as he spoke. “You see, there are several ways that a coma may be treated. It’s not always a helpless case. It depends on what brought on the coma. We can either help by dosing patients with antibiotics or performing surgery on them, by giving them drugs or other medication, even glucose. However in your brother’s case, the coma appears to be self-induced, and so it is one of those situations where waiting is our only option. Waiting, and trying to get either an eye, verbal, or motor response out of the patient by being near him and talking to him.”

“Then let me out of here. Take me to Sam and I’ll talk to him, do anything that might help,” Dean urged the doctor, already kicking the blanket off and reaching for the IV line sticking out of his arm, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

The doctor removed his hand when Dean shot him a glare, then sighed and shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry, but you’re a patient as well. For now, your father is doing a good enough job talking to your brother and trying to wake him. In my professional opinion, even if that turns out to be helpful, with Sam’s condition, it will take him at least one more day before showing a reaction, and even more before waking up, so you don’t need to rush. Rest and let the IV warm your body, bring your temperature back to normal before you try moving around again. And anyway, as I’ve mentioned before, your brother doesn’t seem to be fighting. I’m very sorry to say this, but whatever has happened to him must have traumatized him to such an extent he doesn’t feel the need to wake up anymore.”

Dean blinked, snorting incredulously. “Is that supposed to keep me here? To make me give up on tearing this useless fucking piece of shit out of my arm and find my brother?” he snarled, tempted to reach out and grab the doctor by his coat, maybe stick the IV needle in him, see how he liked it.

Unperturbed, the doctor took a step back and gave Dean a look that was very close to pitying, only boiling the boy’s blood further. “I know what you’re going through now must be painful, but I need you to understand that you are a patient of this hospital as well. I cannot let you leave your room until you’ve recovered.”

“Two days, right?” he blurted, scowl etched onto his face as he glowered at the doctor. “You said I’ve been here for two days. Well, I might not be a professional, but I’m pretty sure that that’s plenty amount of rest for someone who doesn’t even have any serious injuries. Look, doc, I’m all nice and toasty now, I don’t need to rot in this bed anymore, so I’m going to ask you nicely one more time. Let. Me. See. My. Brother.”

The man regarded him for a good moment, before glancing at the heart rate monitor and the IV stand, then sighed silently. “You may visit him, but I want you back in this bed in an hour. I will check, and if I don’t see you here, I will send nurses to escort you back. Do you understand? Hypothermia doesn’t just affect your body’s temperature but your organs as well, so until you’re stable and fully recovered, you can’t stay with your brother.”

“Fine,” Dean agreed grudgingly, reaching to pull the needle out of his arm, but again, the doctor stopped him.

“Keep that in. It’s a heated IV fluid, and you need it.”

Rolling his eyes but not in the mood to argue anymore, Dean took off the patches sticking to his chest, got out of the bed and stood up, wobbling a bit and feeling rather dizzy for a second, but the rocking sensation passed fairly quickly as he took a hold of the cold steel pole and held on, supporting himself until his vision cleared. He only now realized that his dirty clothes were gone and, just as he suspected and dreaded, there was a loose hospital gown hanging from his body. It was just as bad as he expected, with too much air and freedom between his legs, the gown having an exceptionally disgusting pattern with blue dots and rhombuses on a pale white background, though at least there wasn’t a gap in the back of his gown that left nothing for the imagination. It was tightened properly, saving him from the embarrassment of accidentally flashing an old lady with his bare ass, so he couldn’t really complain that much.

Wriggling his feet into the slippers he’s been provided with, Dean pulled the pole with the IV bag hanging from it after him as he left the room and followed the doctor whose name he still didn’t know. Without exchanging any more words, they walked down several hallways filled with either nurses chatting or speed-walking from one room to another, and patients wandering about in a comatose state, holding onto plastic cups of steaming hot chocolate or chatting with their families, many of them unfortunately not having Dean’s luck in their tightness of gowns, and by the time they reached Sam’s room, he was quite certain he has seen a lifetime’s worth of wrinkly asses.

The doctor stopped by the door and nodded toward it, telling Dean to enter, which, after a moment of hesitation, he did. Bracing himself for the worst, he held his breath and turned the handle, opening the door almost uncertainly, then stepped inside with the pole rolling behind him; however he didn’t get too far, only taking about three steps before halting as he saw the tiny, brittle mummy his brother had turned into.

A bitter ache spread out from his stomach to his chest, clutching his heart and draining his face of any blood. Dean suddenly felt as if he was falling, as if gravity had a stronger pull on his body that made his fingertips and toes tingle, but he couldn’t collapse or move, frozen in this moment as his doleful eyes took in every single detail of his baby brother’s bandaged up body. Sam was wrapped in white, the kid nearly lost in it since his skin was also pale as snow, making his stitches and bruises stand out even more. His black eye looked better now, in the way it wasn’t swollen that much anymore, but the dark purple and borderline pure, coal black bruise surrounding it was still there, looking somewhat worse than before. His face was covered in other purple and deep red, even blue bruises, these smaller, and his nose had a splint realigning it, along with some more bandages. There was also a line of bandages covering his neck, like some very tight and uncomfortable turtleneck. He couldn’t see under the blanket, but he supposed that was for the better, already knowing without needing to look that Sam’s whole torso was probably full of the white gauze as well. One of his legs was sticking out from under the blanket, though, his foot which had a cast on it sitting on a large pillow at the end of the bed, elevating the kid’s ankle, with only his tiny toes visible. And he was also hooked up to an IV bag which fed him the essential fluids Dean guessed was being pumped into his own veins even now.

John was sitting next to the immobile body on the bed, holding his hand and watching him, but raised his tired gaze to Dean as he finally moved closer, the sound of the pole rolling across the glossy rubber floor awkwardly loud in the silence of the room. “You were let out?” John asked in a whispery, raspy tone.

He watched his father’s thumb as it stroked the back of Sam’s hand, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, ripping his gaze from his brother to look back at his father instead, still feeling a bit pissed off toward the man, but simply not having it in him to shout anymore, especially with Sammy in the room. “I’ve got like an hour before having to go back to bed.”

His answer was met with a nod as his father looked back at Sam with a pained expression, before standing up from the chair and walking over to Dean. “Be nice to your brother,” he said lowly, placing a heavy hand on the other’s shoulder, then took one last look at the body on the bed before leaving, and as the door behind him closed, the room was suddenly filled with a thick, deafening silence.

Dean stood still for the longest moment, working up the courage to go closer, then slowly moved over to the chair and sat down, hand almost shaking as he tentatively placed it over Sam’s soft one. He was warm. Warm and alive, but no thanks to Dean, who couldn’t do shit to save the kid. Bupkis. It was partly his fault that his baby brother was lying here now, unconscious and beaten down, with little chance of ever waking up again. Oh, how Dean wished he possessed some sort of supernatural power, something he could use to make all these wounds, both physical and mental, disappear. He would have given anything for a magic wand or anything powerful enough to turn back time, something he could wave and use to make everything better, but he had no such thing. Useless, that’s what he was. All he could do was mess things up. He was the one who told Sam to go there. He was the one who found him too late, who, despite being a hunter, couldn’t even save his little brother from the claws of another kind of monster. He gave shit to John, but if it wouldn’t have been for him, both of them would have died by now. A day and a half. Dean checked the calendar hung up in the hallways as he came to Sam’s room. They’ve been down there for only a day and a half, but Dean was already suffering from hypothermia, and Sam from a cruel mix of that and blood loss. It would have only taken them a few more minutes to die, for it to be too late to save them, so if their dad wouldn’t have showed up when he did, then right now, in the bottom of that well, they’d be…

Was there really nothing he could do? Not then, and not even now? Just sitting here and caressing the kid’s hand won’t wake him up, won’t erase the pain and the memories. But now that he thought of it, would regaining consciousness be any better? Maybe that’s why Sam refused to wake up. Facing all that he’s been through, at such a young age, no matter the circumstances he’s been brought up in, would mean a great mental strain and a never-ending stream of nightmares. Sam’s mind would be a horror show, the memories surely haunting him. And if Dean would be in the other’s position, if he had to choose between coming back to live a life he never wanted in the first place, with even more things to haunt him in the darkness of the night, and forgetting, leaving all of this mess he didn’t have the energy to cope with behind, all this bullshit, he would have chosen the latter, too. Stop fighting. Put down the arms and lean back, lie down into a bed of earth and rest, close his eyes in an eternal sleep. He could understand why, after all he’s been through, Sam would choose this option instead of returning into the world of the living, into a world that many times didn’t even seem like it was worth saving, wanted saving, but since Dean was a selfish person, he gently squeezed his little brother’s hand and, for the first time ever since his mother died, prayed.

He prayed for angels to exist and help his Sammy, at least Sam, who deserved to be saved way more than any despicable human out there. He prayed for his brother to wake up without the memories of these last few days, for him to open his eyes as the little brat with the dimpled smile Dean never knew he loved so damn much, and not as the desolate kid with the crushed spirit and with the fire in his eyes turned to ashes, thin and flimsy, carried away by the faintest gust of wind. And he even prayed, briefly and secretly, for the strength to always do the right thing, to stay true to himself, because right now, Dean wouldn’t have liked to do anything more than to get up, walk out that door and leave the building, and go until he came to a crossroads where he’d gladly sell his soul in return for his brother’s health and safety. He’d spit in his father’s face and make a deal with a demon in a heartbeat if it meant Sam would wake up unscarred, that’s how desperate he has become, was considering doing that more and more with each passing minute he spent gazing at his brother’s injured face, so he forced himself to lower his eyes and stare instead at the small hand cradled unresponsively in his.

“Hey, Sam,” he said with a sigh, voice uneven and close to breaking, but he didn’t expect anything better, anyway. He was glad he at least managed to raise his voice above a whisper. “I know you probably can’t hear me right now. Can’t even feel me touching you, can you? I’d appreciate it if you’d try and listen, though, because if you don’t, then I’ll just look like some weirdo talking to himself.” He chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow, quickly dissipating and becoming one with the silence. “So, yeah. You waking up would be nice. Tell you what, if you open your eyes in the next hour, I’m going to nag dad until he takes us back to Austin, and then I’ll take you to that ice-cream place you love. Get you some mint chocolate chip ice-cream, the one you just can’t shut up about. Might even get some in a small container, put it in the freezer so you’d be able to eat some later as well. How does that sound?” Dean stroked circles in the back of the other’s hand, listening to the slow, even beeps of the monitor next to Sam’s bed and trying to smile, in vain. He wondered if his face broke, if he’ll ever be able to smile again if his brother never woke up. He guessed no.

“Please,” he begged after a long moment of nothing, his façade falling apart, because he just wanted his brother back. That’s all he wanted, only thing he’ll ever ask for, so please, God, make just this one wish come true. “Sammy, I know you don’t want to come back. I get it, kid, I do. I wouldn’t want to, either, but I’m pretty sure I noticed some gray strands in dad’s hair, you’re makin’ him worry that much. I bet even Bobby is behaving like some lone drunkard right now, that is, if he’s not torturing that man who let this happen to you. They’re gone, you know? I… I killed them. I killed them, so they won’t be able to hurt you anymore, no one will ever be able to lay a finger on you, so please. You know I can’t do this without you, Sam. You know me more than anyone, more than dad, know that I’m not as strong as I let on. I try, just like you do, but if you’re gone, I won’t have a reason to keep trying anymore. And I know, I know this is much to ask. Know that you don’t want to come back after all that has happened, after what they’ve done to you, what…I did. And I’m sorry about everything, even though a ‘sorry’ won’t do shit. But I’m still going to ask, still going to beg you to wake up. Because I need you.”

He sniffled, blinking back tears he refused to let run free, then reluctantly let go of the other’s hand, stood up from the chair and leaned forward, brushing Sam’s bangs out of the way to press a whisper-light kiss on an unharmed part of his forehead. “I will wait for you, no matter how long. Years, even, if I have to. But please…please, wake up, Sammy,” he murmured quietly, eyes closed for a while as he just hovered over his brother, their faces inches away from each other, before Dean forced a thin smile and pulled away, gripping the pole from which his own IV bag hung as he headed for the door with a heavy, bereft heart.

A heart that just might never be capable of loving again, if he were to lose Sam…

 


	10. Time Heals

 

Three weeks and a day. He counted.

It took Sam three weeks and a day to finally open his eyes. Throughout that time, Dean had obviously recovered and was allowed to spend more and more time in his brother’s room, talking to him or just caressing him. After two weeks, he began reading to him from the books he found in the hospital library. Alice in Wonderland, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the classics that he knew Sam had always wanted to read. He cracked jokes, made comments while reading, pretended that his brother was listening and rolling his eyes, calling Dean an idiot for making fun of stories that were such an important part of the history of literature, or something nerdy like that. Many times, he fell asleep in the chair with the book in his hands, and he rarely slept in the motel room that John had gotten for them. It wasn’t that far from the hospital, but Dean still preferred to stay here rather than there, didn’t want to leave his brother’s side in case if he were to wake up just when he wasn’t there. Or if something happened, maybe Sam’s heart giving out while Dean was just sleeping miles away from him… Yeah, no. He lived off of vending machine food and coffee, so much coffee and some whiskey John sometimes let him drink, and slept in chairs and uncomfortably hard leather couches, as while the hospital staff was kind enough to give them special bracelets that meant they could stay in the building, he couldn’t use the room and the bed he used to be in because other patients needed that.

The day Sam woke up, Dean was especially tired thanks to a series of nightmares keeping him from sleeping. He was in the middle of getting his fifth coffee, when John speed-walked past him with a brisk “He’s awake.” Dean immediately followed, leaving the coffee in the machine, and then had to stomp impatiently in front of the door before he elbowed his way into the room filled with nurses who tried to unsuccessfully shoo him out. When the swarm of nurses dispersed, only him, John, the doctor—whose name was Dr. Daniel Wright, he found out after a few days—and Sam were left in the room. His brother was still a bit out of it, slipping in and out of consciousness, but the doctor said this was a good sign and the first big step toward full recovery. The couple of next days were a bit of a blur, with Dean almost never leaving the other’s room and feeling an almost explosive amount of relief whenever Sam’s eyes fluttered open or his fingers twitched. Slowly, his brother came all the way back, and it wasn’t long before he could move his body and become aware of his surroundings.

But of course, that didn’t mean that everything was completely fine.

Sam could move, but obviously they weren’t letting him out of bed for a few more weeks. He had a panic attack the first time Dr. Wright explained to him what happened, then cried for three consecutive days, until his eyes were puffy and red. His wounds were healing nicely, thank god, however the thrashing from the panic attack opened some on his back. Also, he wasn’t speaking. At first, Dean just thought that his brother was too overwhelmed and simply didn’t want to speak, and as it turned out, he wasn’t that far off. After a week of muteness, the doctor told them that Sam had developed selective mutism following the trauma that has occurred to him. It was impossible to say how long an selective mutism could last—it could be months or even go up to years—and curing it wasn’t an option either, so unfortunately, all they could do was wait and hope. Dean evidently wasn’t happy to hear that, and neither was John, but they were both too glad that Sam had at least woken from his coma to mind for now.

Unlike he expected with a large amount of dread, his brother did not throw anything at him or looked at him with hate in his eyes. And while at first, he was relieved, after several days of nothing, Dean began wish the other would show some kind of emotion, even if it ended up being abhorrence. Sam never smiled, which was completely understandable. But he also never got angry or sad, didn’t show anything on his face, as if he was an empty shell with a similarly empty, emotionless face. No matter what Dean said, what he asked, what he did, Sam just stared at him with a pair of bleak, somewhat disinterested eyes before either looking out the window or going back to sleep. This was so much worse than his brother despising him, because it felt like Sam wasn’t even himself anymore, like the kid he loved was left in the nether of that well, died in there, and what he got in return was an apathetic copy, like a blank paper from which all the words have been erased.

It hurt more than anything, but when they asked the doctor, he just suggested therapy. So after the weeks of recovery were over and Sam could be finally checked out of the hospital, that’s exactly what they did. They settled in a motel room, renting it for several months in advance, and John stopped hunting in other states for a while, only taking up cases that happened around the city they were in. With the money they had, and with what Bobby gave them, they managed to get Sam a therapist. After only one session of trauma therapy, the woman working with him informed them that Sam was the way he was because of PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in short—and he needed to take medication alongside with the therapy. No surprises there, Dean thought, as Sam certainly has gone through enough to develop something like that. That didn’t make watching his brother sit on the bed while staring off into nothing any less painful, though. They also got him new teeth, dental implants that cost a fortune, but with Bobby rounding up some other hunters to help financially, they just managed to afford it.

Slowly, he discovered more things about this new Sam, none of which were positive changes. First, in addition to not speaking, he was also against physical touches. He was jumpy when nobody was touching him, and even more when Dean put a gentle hand on his shoulder or on his back, Sam always flinching and moving away, looking like a scared animal about to get eaten. It never ceased to break Dean’s heart, and since he hated seeing his brother like that, he made himself stop touching the other, no matter how difficult that was. Physical contact wasn’t the only thing Sam began to avoid; he was also withdrawing from any social interaction, never leaving the motel room, and even in there, he tried to stay in corners where there was no one, Dean noticing many times how the kid scurried into the bathroom or anywhere else when he or John entered the room or got too close. He also still refused to smile, not even the tiniest hint of it appearing on his face, but at least now he wasn’t absolutely emotionless anymore. Not that that was any good, because Sam’s only two apparent emotions were anxiety and fear. He always seemed so uneasy and depressed, his days mainly consisting in lying in bed reading or staring at the walls, and whenever Dean suggested they play cards or do something, his brother always shook his head and tried to appear as small as possible as he went back to doing nothing. It took him one month to get Sam out the motel with the promise of just a simple walk, and even then the kid seemed like he thought the cars would veer in and run him over on purpose, or the people they walked past would jump and attack him. Hoping Sam might get used to the outside if only he frequented it often enough, Dean took him out on walks once every week, but after two months, he had to come to the disappointing conclusion that his brother was still the same, remained disconnected and numb toward every and anything, no matter what he or John tried.

Then there was the food problem, as if Dean didn’t have enough things to worry about. Thanks to Sam’s medication, the therapy, and the dental implants, they didn’t have that much money left for the essentials like food, so they only had ramen and stacks of cheap frozen food in their fridge. So it wasn’t like they had much food to begin with, but his brother refused to eat even what little they had. He just simply wasn’t eating.

He either left half of the already small portion Dean put before him, or nudged it with his fork before leaving the table and the meal behind. There have been days when Sam didn’t eat anything aside from one biscuit, and it wasn’t long before his skinny form began turning even thinner, the kid looking like a walking skeleton, and it was a miracle his bones weren’t rattling with every step he took. Seeing that, Dean obviously tried to force-feed his brother, which wasn’t that easy with him pulling away or even starting to tremble, looking like someone who was about to cry each time food got forced into his mouth. Seeing how that was clearly not working, Dean tried a more lenient, patient approach, and for each meal, he spoon-fed his brother personally, coaxing and encouraging him, praising him whenever he opened his mouth, chewed and swallowed the food, and surprisingly, after a while, it worked. It did mean that Sam wasn’t eating unless Dean was feeding him, but honestly, he actually enjoyed doing it, so he didn’t mind.

Taking care of Sam didn’t only apply to daytime. Dean was busy during the night, too, as at least four nights out of seven he woke up to his little brother stirring violently in his bed and whimpering. The nightmares were relentless, and sadly, they were one of those things he couldn’t do anything about, just like the muteness and that nervous, all but frightened little gleam in the other’s dispirited eyes. Many times, he attempted to soothe his brother by waking him up and then hugging him, but as always, the contact made Sam shake like a malfunctioning wind-up toy, had him curling into a tiny ball and sobbing into his pillow, so Dean was left with only being able to comfort his brother with words, telling him that nightmares couldn’t hurt him, promising that Sam was safe now, that even if the dreams got really bad, he always had Dean who would even battle those good for nothing dreams if he had to. He even took up humming and crooning to his brother to help him go back to sleep, made himself learn lullabies, then gave up and sang his favorites songs instead, unable to stop his laughter when he once heard Sam huff during one of his air guitar solos.

Months passed like that, with Sam very slowly warming up to smaller things, and by the sixth month, Dean managed to take his brother out to a diner. It wasn’t a walk in the park, and Sam’s eyes kept darting left and right, looking for any potential threats, but by the time they were inside and had a strawberry parfait in front of them, along with a warm apple pie, he managed to keep the jumpiness to a minimum. Dean ordered the desserts even though Sam could have done it as well, since he always had a little notepad and a pencil on himself to communicate with, and then ignored the mixed looks people gave them when he fed his little brother the creamy parfait. He wondered if he had developed a feeding fetish along the months, because putting food in Sam’s mouth and then watching as he chewed with closed eyes, before swallowing and licking his small, pink lips shouldn’t have made Dean so happy, but it did. Though that might have just been because his brother was an adorable little thing, even like this, and Dean was still in love with him. He never fell out of it, no matter how much he wished he would, only got sucked further into this inescapable pit of affection he had for Sam. No being able to touch him, not even a slight caress, was killing Dean. He missed his brother’s voice and smile, too, missed so many things, but was learning to appreciate and enjoy these new ones, for instance feeding the kid strawberry parfait while the waitress smiled at them sweetly. After that, he took Sam out more often, to walks, to visit the zoo, to car drives when dad wasn’t using the Impala for a hunt.

They had to take a week long break from leaving the motel, though, after an accident at the amusement park, where a vendor called Sam a bunny, resulting in the boy freezing, breaking out in sweat, and his breathing picked up so much it was obvious he would have had a breakdown if Dean wouldn’t have brought him back to the motel right away.

He would have loved to say that he didn’t know why Sam had that kind of reaction. Oh, what he would have given to erase that particular piece of information from his brain, but once he’s seen it, he could, unfortunately, never unsee it. It was less than a week after they checked Sam out of the hospital, that Bobby visited them and gave Dean his phone back. Told him he found it near the shack, and it still seemed to be working, so it would have been a shame to throw it out. Probably out of privacy reasons, Bobby didn’t look into the phone, but later on, when Dean saw those things, he felt like yelling at the man for not being nosey. He didn’t expect it. He just sat on the bed, Sam reading on the other bed next to his, and unsuspectingly opened up his photo album, curious if his brother managed to take some pictures of the egged shack before…well. And he did, as Dean found out while looking through the pictures, indeed take a picture of it, along with a video. Frowning, he glanced at his brother before putting in his earphones so as to not bother the kid, then pressed play.

What he saw then nearly made him break out in tears and screams, and hurl the phone against a wall.

Those motherfuckers filmed it. Recorded it as they humiliated his brother over, and over again, made him say and do things. He didn’t want to, but now he knew exactly what had entered Sam’s ass before he got raped, knew how Sam sounded like when he was screaming in pain. He saw the utter mortification in the other’s eyes, Dean’s face matching the red color of his brother’s on the screen when the kid was forced to blow a kiss to the camera, seething rage boiling in him as he watched his brother get cut, slashed, degraded, jeered at, called names and stripped of not only his clothes, but his dignity as well. One of them kept calling him bunny, Dean glad it was the one whose skull he remembered splitting open. Piece of shit deserved it. After the video was over, he deleted it right away, already feeling sick, and his stomach only twisted and whirled even more when he looked back at his brother, the knowledge of what really happened making him want to hug Sam all the more.

So remembering that day, Dean never took his brother to that amusement park ever again.

But considering everything, things were going well. He continued taking his brother to places after waiting a bit, wanting to make him feel normal, so that he’d slowly readjust to living life the way he used to. And sure, it was indeed slow. It took him months to even get Sam to come out of the motel room, and even more time to convince him that he didn’t need to feel scared whenever someone aside from Dean spoke or even looked at him, however as time went by, he started to believe in the saying “time heals all wounds”. Well, maybe not all, but it could certainly make them less painful, like a soothing flow of icy water on a burn. It took a while, but Sam had grown accustomed to the gazes and the chaotic comings and goings of the outside world, wasn’t jumping each time someone else talked to him, though touching him was still forbidden, even for Dean. Anyway, things were gradually working out despite all the hardships they’ve been through.

At least, that’s what he thought.

 


	11. Won't You Stay With Me?

 

John was out, has been for a couple of days. A wendigo hunt, if he heard it right. It was only him and Sam in the motel, though honestly, Dean preferred it that way. He didn’t really have a bone to pick with their father, aside from the usual petty arguments, and his presence wasn’t all that unwelcome either, but Dean still liked to be alone with his brother. He felt like they could bond more easily that way, and he really, really wanted to grow closer to Sam. He liked how things were right now, because Sam wasn’t always in his little bubble anymore, but at the same time, he missed the good old days. The fights over the last chocolate chip cookie, the prank wars, the teasing and the laughing. They used to be a daily part of his life, and until now, he never realized how much they meant to him. It really seemed as if people only became aware of their love toward certain things, registered just how much they meant to them, when those things were gone.

You take it for granted, the idea of ever losing it never crossing your mind, but as soon as it vanishes from your life, you feel as if a hole has appeared in your world, and no matter how much you try, you just can’t seem to fill it. It can be an object, a person—even an emotion. Someone who is always happy won’t even realize it; happiness would just exist in them, become part of them. It would turn invisible to their eyes, and then they wouldn’t appreciate it as much as others, because it’s just something they always have with them, something that, after a while of possessing it, ultimately loses its meaning. But if that happiness is removed from their life, if they are suddenly left without it, realization quickly comes crashing down on that person, making them regret not cherishing that feeling while they had it. Like health robbed from you by sickness, love by loss, senses by an accident, or your home by a fire; and realization always comes much too late. Even when you get it back, that sense of gratitude quickly diminishes and fades as you get used to having it again, until the very moment it’s gone, and this continues over and over, a vicious circle to which you cannot put an end to.

Dean knew that feeling too well.

He listened to passing conversations as he walked back to the motel, a plastic bag full of groceries in each hand. They were the usual, run-of-the-mill foods, plain and simple, nothing extravagant. Bread, jam, butter, milk and water, orange juice and a few types of frozen vegetables and meat mixes. Today was one of those days where they have managed to save up enough money for a bigger shopping trip—the smaller ones consisted of only buying cornflakes and energy bars—so Dean spent whatever money they had wisely, buying things that they could eat right away as well as later on, foods that could go weeks without rotting. He did sneak in a pack of Oreos, though, because not only was he craving those crumbly treats, but he knew that Sam adored them as well, and making that kid happy was his mission in life these days. Or, well, months.

Fishing out the key and opening the door to the motel while balancing the bags on his wrists wasn’t an easy task, but he was Dean Winchester, professional badass, so he was in the room in less than two minutes. He didn’t like leaving Sam alone, because even though his brother probably preferred solitude, it wasn’t good for him. Plus Dean was pretty sure that he has developed a constant craving for Sam’s presence, some sort of odd dependency, and he couldn’t really go more than an hour without needing to either look at the other, or just simply be close to him. Yeah, it was probably unhealthy and not normal at all, but at this point, what was normal?

“Sam, I’ve got us something. I think you’re gonna like it,” he said with a slightly raised voice as he walked to the tiny kitchen-thing they had in the motel, as when he entered, his brother wasn’t here. So the bathroom, obviously. He got no answer, but that was also a given, so Dean began unpacking the bags and filling the fridge with the food that belonged there, before taking out a smaller plate and placing the pack of Oreos next to it. “Come on out, or I’ll eat them all,” he taunted, smiling expectantly with his eyebrows raised, eyes trailed on the bathroom door, but when it still didn’t open after a minute, Dean sighed and pushed himself away from the kitchen counter.

Walking over to the bathroom door, he knocked twice, then frowned when he tried the handle, only to have it resist under his hand. “Hey, you okay in there?” he asked, obviously not expecting an actual answer, but at least some kind of sound would have been better than deadly silence. His wish came true after a moment, as he heard something clanking in the sink, something not too heavy, like plastic. Knocking again, Dean rattled the handle as if that would make the door magically unlock itself, dread slowly creeping up on him like black, unyielding tendrils. “Sam? Sam, open the door.”

Still no answer, aside from a muffled cough, followed by what he really hoped wasn’t a gagging sound. His brother used to lock himself in the bathroom before, sure, but that was still at the beginning, in the first few weeks. He hasn’t done it in ages, meaning whatever he was doing in there couldn’t possibly be good, the strange sounds coming from in there only worrying Dean even more.

Not a fan of ruining stuff they were still using, but refusing to stand here and do nothing while who knows what was happening to his brother in there, he pounded on the door once more before taking a step back. “Sam, open the door right now, or I’m breaking it down!” No answer. Fine, then he was going to go Chuck Norris on this damn door. “I’m coming in!” he warned, before getting into position and kicking the door near the keyhole, and while on the first try it didn’t work, on the second the door swung open so hard it bounced off the bathroom wall and nearly closed again.

Dean immediately elbowed the door and rushed into the bathroom, feeling like he’s been hit by a bulldozer the moment he took in the scene before his eyes. In the sink lay the orange bottle in which his brother’s antidepressant pills were kept, the same white and blue pills that were now spilled next to the bottle. Dean could only see less than half of them, though, but before he could’ve wondered where the rest of them have disappeared to, he looked at Sam, and he knew. His brother was staring at him with wide, tear-glazed eyes, trembling hands covering his mouth as he took a cautious step back, face somewhat red, as if he were holding back the urge to gag. Dean’s own mouth wasn’t working for the longest moment, just opening and closing in shocked disbelief, but then as all the emotions inside of him built up and finally overflowed, he snapped, crossing the bathroom in a heartbeat and ripping the other’s hands from his mouth.

“What the fuck, Sam?!” he yelled incredulously, voice rising and falling, out of control. “Spit them out. Spit them out right this fucking instant!” His brother shook his head, the tears welling up in his eyes leaving them and rolling down his cheeks, so Dean turned him around and manhandled him to his knees before the toilet, where he stood behind the other, legs on either side of him and trapping him in position. “You’re going to throw them up,” he barked, but when his brother just sobbed, Dean had to open Sam’s jaw and shove his fingers in there, feeling around and pressing down until the kid was thrashing around and gagging, and he removed his fingers just in time before the other leaned forward and threw up in the toilet. Dean cursed as he watched pill after pill leave his brother’s body, as Sam’s shoulders shook each time he heaved, and even though it wasn’t sanitary, Dean didn’t care, and he kept pushing his fingers back in there until the other wasn’t throwing up pills anymore.

When there was nothing in his stomach left his brother could throw up, Dean let go of his hair which he’s been holding, and just wiped his fingers on his pants before turning Sam around. Instead of helping him stand back up, though, Dean was actually finding it rather difficult to keep standing himself, and as all the panic and sudden outrage left him, he fell to his knees in front of his brother. “Why? Why?” He gripped Sam’s shoulders and shook him until the kid raised his gaze from the floor and looked at him. “Why did you do it? I thought… I thought you were fine, Sam. Why would you try to kill yourself, damn it!” he yelled, voice breaking and splintering along with his heart, and even as he could feel Sam pulling away, he simply didn’t have it in himself anymore to care about the ‘no touching’ rule, and yanked the kid into a hug so tight no amount of struggling would help him escape.

Sam tried to push him away, a thin sound resembling a whimper leaving him, but then abruptly stopped when Dean continued speaking, going limp in his arms as he said, no, begged, “Please.” Sniffling, because he couldn’t take it anymore, these last few months becoming too much and finally, finally cracking him open, he held his brother closer and cried, just let it all out. “Please, I’ve already lost you once, Sammy, I can’t… I can’t do this all over again. I’ve tried, I really did, but I can’t keep doing this. Sam, god, I miss you so much, please. I need you, you have no idea how much, no idea how much you mean to me, how much I love you. I love you. I love you, Sammy, and if you’re gone…” He shook his head, swallowing back tears in vain and hugging his brother close to his chest. “Please don’t leave me, okay? You’re all I need, but if you’re not here… Just stay. That’s all I’m asking, you don’t even need to, to… You don’t need to love me,” he whispered the last words, each feeling like an arrow to the heart, but he was desperate and hopeless, so hopelessly in love. “You don’t have to love me the way I love you, you can hate me, you can feel however you feel even though it kills me, Sammy, because I really, really just need you. That’s all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, so…so as long as you stay with me, you can think whatever you want of me. Just please. Please. Please. Please…don’t take the easy way out, no matter how hard it gets. I’ll do whatever you want, Sam, I swear I will, so I’m begging you, don’t do this ever again…”

He fell silent after that, too afraid to speak, to even move, his arms firm and frozen around his brother, whole body a statue of shame and guilt, of love and fear, of spoken words that weren’t ever supposed to leave his mouth, but in this moment of weakness, he let them all out, and was already greatly regretting doing so. He just dug his own grave. Letting go of his traumatized little brother, giving him a cup of water, leaving him alone—that’s what he should be doing right now, not hanging onto this moment, onto Sam like a leech, too terrified of what would happen if he broke the hug. He wanted to stay suspended in this moment forever, wouldn’t even have minded if the world came to an end right at this very moment, for he was too afraid of the future, of what would happen now that he has overstepped his boundaries, has done so many taboo and selfish things that Sam hating him wasn’t even an option anymore. It was given.

Dean waited as long as he could, the sluggish drag of the seconds stretching into a minute, maybe two, but no matter how much he didn’t want to, he had to unwrap himself from the kid. He had to face the consequences of his actions. “Sorry…” he muttered so quietly it was possible that Sam didn’t even hear him, before slowly letting go and pulling away, wiping away the tears lingering in his eyes and clinging to his lashes; however before he could’ve stood up, a hand grasping his shirt stopped him.

Blinking, he watched perplexedly as Sam curled his fingers in Dean’s shirt, before very, excruciatingly slowly sliding his hands up to the other’s neck and then wrapping his arms around it, eyes uncertain and somewhat sheepish as they gazed into his own confounded ones, and then Dean suddenly forgot how to breathe when his brother’s mouth opened and—

“De…eean…Dean.”

He just gaped at Sam for the longest moment, before a shaky smile spread across his face. The word was raspy and almost inaudible, uneven like a faulty wire, and so weak, but it was there, and when his brother was done saying it, his cheeks gained a light pink color, the kid bushing with the sweetest look on his face. It almost took physical effort for Dean not to haul Sam into another hug, not to kiss those pretty cheeks until they turned an ever deeper shade. Instead, he brought a hand to his brother’s face and caressed one of those cheeks with the back of his fingers, his heart swelling when Sammy closed his eyes and smiled.

“Sam,” he whispered with so much love and affection they practically clogged his throat, unable to stop the light laugh that escaped him when his little brother moved closer and hugged him this time, arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s neck and face buried in the crook of it. He instantly raised a hand to pet the other’s head, taking deep breaths as he nuzzled Sam’s hair and letting the fragrance of shampoo, of Sammy, even the slightest hint of sweat calm him, because it was all his brother. His brother, so close to him, clinging to him, making him the happiest person alive right now.

They hugged for what seemed like hours before finally letting go, both of them smiling, even if just a little, though Sam’s smile turned surprisingly warmer when Dean planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “Come on, let’s get up from the floor. I bought you Oreos,” he said while brushing the other’s hair back, his brother nodding with an excited glint in his eyes as they stood up and made their way out of the bathroom, hand in hand, it pretty much being a miracle Dean’s heart didn’t go propelling out of his chest from joy.

His brother talked. He said Dean’s name, smiled, and hugged him. He didn’t push him away for what he said. It all seemed like a dream, it was so perfect. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he felt so damn happy, and as he fed a shy-looking Sam some Oreos with milk, he promised himself he would never take his brother and his smile for granted anymore.

He would cherish every moment he spent with Sam as if they were the last, would treasure each and every second until the day he died.

 


	12. From The Dust

 

That day when he stopped Sam from committing suicide, it was as if a switch in his brother had been flipped, and from then on, their days together changed completely.

Well, maybe not completely. Sam wasn’t back to the way he used to be, was still wary of strangers and mostly kept to himself, and his depression didn’t vanish from one day to the other, but it got better. Things got better. Slowly, he started talking again. Only a few words here and there, maximum two full sentences per day, but that was already a huge step, and every time Dean heard his brother’s voice, he found himself smiling. Though these days, he was pretty much smiling all the time, because Sam had practically become a monkey. It was as if he was trying to make up for all that time without physical contact, suddenly turning touch deprived and clinging to Dean every chance he got—snuggling on the couch while watching TV, sitting close to him while being fed, standing close or hugging him when Dean was making food, jumping into his arms when he came back to the motel after a supply run, and after a week or so, even sleeping in the same bed as him. John was also, obviously, overjoyed by the news, and they waited one more month before going back to their routine of travelling from town to town, state to state, hunting monsters. Except only their dad was hunting, because Sam needed Dean back at the motel, has become so dependent of his big brother that he could barely survive an hour without him.

They knew, because Dean had tried to go hunting with John once, then came back to find the motel trashed and Sammy curled up in a corner, crying. Yeah, definitely not a good idea to leave the poor thing alone, plus he wasn’t a fan of being without the kid either, so in the end, he continued to spend his days with Sam and only Sam.

And what great days they were. Dean hadn’t expected for his brother to behave the way he was, not like that, not even before what happened in those woods. He didn’t mind touching anymore, initiated them most of the time, and the way he clung to Dean when they slept was simply precious. Honestly, when he confessed in that bathroom, he thought he screwed everything up, but he evidently hadn’t. At the same time, though…he couldn’t have been completely sure. Sam hugged him, smiled at him, spoke to him—he did all those things, but nothing more. He never attempted to maybe kiss him or anything else, so Dean didn’t know whether his brother had accepted the words he said that day, or simply ignored them. And then wouldn’t ignorance basically mean rejection? Sam acted as if Dean never said anything, as if he never told him he loved him, as if they didn’t kiss. Sure, that kiss was during a desperate situation, with the kid probably unaware of what was really happening, which probably meant that it was actually a stolen kiss, but Dean rather not think of that. Either way, his brother wasn’t making a move, wasn’t even showing any signs of wanting Dean to try anything, so it was safe to assume that he got, indeed, rejected. Which obviously sucked, and hurt, but he also knew that those were selfish feelings. It was greedy of him to want everything, not only Sam’s wellbeing and affection, but also his love. He should just content himself with the fact that his brother was capable of laughing again, of talking. He should be feeling lucky as the person Sam trusts, needs, and loves the most, even if that love wasn’t the same as the one Dean harbored toward the other.

And anyway, he had to remind himself that what he was feeling wasn’t healthy in the first place. It was abnormal, to say the least. Sick. He was in love with his own little brother, for fuck’s sake. He had taken advantage of him, had touched and kissed him and enjoyed every second of it. Wanted to do so much more, have fantasized about undressing Sammy, about the kid writhing beneath him, screaming and moaning his name, small body a serenade of fiery passion and adoration. He wanted to do corrupt things to his baby brother, engage in gay incest with an underage kid. There were so many wrongs in that one sentence that Dean should’ve felt shame, should’ve deserved to get locked in a cell for even thinking about it, but instead, he just kept longing silently, because curing himself from feeling this way was impossible. He knew; he tried.

And that’s exactly why right now, as they lay in bed, Dean was having an especially hard time falling asleep.

Today was Sam’s birthday, and John, for once, actually stayed in the motel with them instead of leaving for a hunt, like he usually did. They asked Sam what he wanted to do and, unsurprisingly, he told them he wanted to stay here and eat cake. So of course that’s what they did. John got them a chocolate-strawberry cake, which they ate rather messily, as the kid insisted on feeding Dean while he fed him, totally oblivious how happy that actually made the older boy. When none of them could get any more of the creamy goodness down, they whipped out the presents, John giving his son a pack of Uno cards with which they played for the rest of the day, and Dean giving his brother a silver ring with Dean’s name engraved in it. He also showed the other how he got himself one as well, with Sam’s name engraved in it, telling him that no matter where they were, how far apart or close, they always had each other. It was pretty cheesy, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if his brother would like it, but the painfully huge smile on Sam’s face and the bone-crushing hug he got was a good enough proof that, yep, the kid definitely appreciated the gift. The rest of the day went by rather quickly, with them playing and teaming up on John, always making him draw four cards, then when they got bored of that, they used the cards to build towers. They stayed up late playing, but in the end, John ordered them to bed, and they couldn’t even pretend to go to sleep, because their bed was right next to their dad’s.

It’s been around three hours since they went to sleep, or at least everyone except for Dean did, because he just had to wake up in the middle of the night to find his brother draped over him like a second blanket, snoozing away with the heel of his foot resting right on top of Dean’s crotch.

Sam had an arm and a leg thrown over him, plus half of his body, his face buried in the safety of the crook of Dean’s neck, and it was pretty distracting, to say the least. He tried closing his eyes and going back to sleep, to block out the feel of his brother’s soft breath skating across his skin or the warm body pressed against him. Tried to ignore how each time the kid stirred, his foot rubbed against his—oh dear lord—bulge, only hardening Dean’s cock even more and sabotaging his plan of falling asleep.

He didn’t know what to do, gave up trying to carefully push his brother away when the kid whimpered in his sleep, so he just lay there, staring up at the ceiling while listening to the combined breathing of Sam and John. He was tired, damn it, and really didn’t need a boner right now, but no, things could never go the way he wanted them to go, could they? Why let Dean have a good night’s sleep after such a long and fun day? Wouldn’t making him suffer through the whole night while having to battle his persistent erection be much more fun?

Sometimes he swore God was out to get him.

A whole lot of nothing kept happening for a very long time before he got bored with trying to count and identify each moldy spot on the ceiling, and so, feeling a bit daring in his frustrated, sleep-deprived and grumpy state, he slipped his arms under the blanket and hugged Sam. That surprisingly made him relax a bit, so after a while, Dean began stroking the other’s back, slowly and gently, then decided he didn’t like the feel of the fabric, and slid a hand under his brother’s shirt to continue his caressing there. He glided his fingers up and down Sam’s spine, the smooth, warm flesh under his hand pulsing with life, Dean smirking to himself when he felt the other shiver slightly. He let the second hand join the first as he stroked the other’s sides and back, lost in the sensation of so much skin, so he barely noticed he was bucking into his brother’s foot—let alone that he was awake.

“De…?” The light, sleepy mumble coming from his neck immediately stopped Dean, hands and hips halting like somebody had pressed the pause button, but any hope that he could maybe pretend he was sleeping disappeared when Sam crawled completely on top of him and nuzzled his chest. Like a freaking puppy.

“Sorry,” he whispered after a moment, one hand remaining on his brother’s back while the other moved to pet his head, to what Sam looked up and gazed right at him, sheeny eyes gleaming from the faint moonlight and making the kid look somewhat magical.

Sam blinked twice, slowly, before crawling a tad bit closer, until their faces were mere inches away. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice,” he said quietly, then let out a little sigh and rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, melting into his body and waiting. Waiting for Dean to keep touching him.

Hesitating and feeling scruple toward what he was doing, Dean didn’t do anything for the longest moment, but then his brother nudged his neck with his nose as if telling him to go ahead, and then he couldn’t really stop himself anymore. He continued to caress, brush and run his fingers over the other’s skin, mapping out Sam’s back with his hands all the while the body on top of him leaned into every touch, arched and sometimes made a low, soft humming sound, and it wasn’t long before Dean began feeling something hard poking his stomach.

Both of them stopping their movements, there was a moment of empty silence before Sam raised his head, watching the other intensely, then leaned in and pressed a tender kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Thank you,” he muttered and averted his eyes, Dean wondering what his brother was talking about until he saw him looking at the ring on his finger.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair hanging before Sam’s face behind his ear, then took his hand. “I wasn’t with you when you most needed me, so…so I thought maybe like this you’ll get the feeling I’m always near. That no matter how bad it gets, I’m always there,” Dean said, sliding his thumb along the ring he gave his brother, and then flashed him a small smile. “Either for real, or just in your heart.”

Returning his smile, Sam nodded. “Thank you,” he repeated, then pressed a few more kisses on the other’s cheek before bumping his nose against Dean’s. “Thank you, Dean. I really… I really love it. The ring. And…you.” Even in the dim, silvery light of room, he could see his brother’s blush as it crept up his neck and painted his cheeks a pretty shade of red, and he was so close, so damn close, that it took all of his self-control not to lean in and just kiss him. But then Sam gave him this bashful look, complete with puppy eyes and nervous lip-chewing, and suddenly the aforementioned self-control ceased to exist as Dean carded his fingers through his brother’s hair before pulling him in for a kiss.

Sam didn’t protest, at all. He parted his lips almost immediately, letting Dean’s tongue inside, his own sliding alongside his almost tentatively. His brother’s lips were just as soft as he remembered, maybe even more so, and he tasted heavenly. Dean couldn’t help himself, he had to lick and taste every inch of the other’s mouth, his tongue and teeth, his lips, he had to have them all. Their lips moved unhurriedly at first, in sync, but as the seconds trickled by, the kiss turned deeper and so much hotter, and it wasn’t long before Sam ended up on his back, with Dean hovering above him and kissing the kid breathless. He took and took, nibbling, sucking on his little brother’s lips and tongue, shoved his own so far down the other’s throat their tongues had to battle for dominance, which Dean obviously won. Heated, eager and fervent, the kiss must have continued for minutes before they had to pull back for air, both of them left panting from the sheer intensity of it.

They watched each other for a long time, just looking wordlessly while John slept like a baby in the other bed, then when Sam raised a hand to Dean’s face and caressed him, he couldn’t help but smile and kiss the hand.

“Sam…” he began, the smile disappearing from his lips as realization struck him, but before he could’ve said anything else, a thumb pressed against his mouth, shushing him.

“I know,” his brother said, warm eyes losing their spark.

Removing the finger blocking his speech, Dean pinned the other’s hands on either side of his head and intertwined their fingers together, before kissing Sam’s forehead. “Are you okay with this? I mean…there are so many reasons why you shouldn’t, why you wouldn’t, and I get it. So you don’t have to. We don’t have to.”

His brother furrowed his brow into a brisk frown, then craned his neck and, since he still couldn’t reach him, just licked Dean’s chin before letting his head fall back on the pillow and saying, “I know we don’t. But…I want to. I really do.”

“Even though we’re…?” Dean gave him a hesitant look, feeling utterly overjoyed but also trying to calm his heart down in case things didn’t go the way he wanted them to. “Even after what happened?”

Sam was silent for the longest moment, eyes looking anywhere but Dean as he thought, then shifted his gaze back to him. “You’re not them,” he stated with a certainty in his voice, but nervousness in his eyes. “And it’s because you’re you, because you’re my brother that I know you won’t hurt me. I don’t want what happened to stop me from…” He trailed off, biting down on his bottom lip and squeezing Dean’s hands.

He had to clench his jaw to stop himself from smiling like an idiot, because his chest was tight and felt like it could burst at the same time, and that shy, somewhat uncertain but oh so longing look on his brother’s face made him want to just ravish Sam right this instant. “Alright. Okay. Alright. Sammy…” he purred quietly, kissing the other again, then left a trail of tiny kisses along Sam’s jaw before he reached his ear. “I will take it slow. Prepare you so you won’t feel any pain,” Dean whispered into his little brother’s ear, before licking it.

Sam made a small sound resembling a moan, then froze and gulped, blinking at Dean when he pulled back with a devious grin. “W-Wait,” he stuttered, glancing at their dad from the corner of his eye. “You mean, like, right now?”

“Why not?” Dean’s grin widened and he licked his lips temptingly, too aroused and happy to care about their hibernating father right now. “As long as you’re not too loud, he won’t notice a thing.”

“But that…that’s…” His brother gaped incredulously at him, obviously embarrassed, and that flustered look in his eyes was so damn adorable Dean was pretty sure he felt himself harden even more. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I can help,” he whispered suggestively, kissing Sam’s jaw before tapping two fingers against the other’s tender lips. “How ’bout you suck on these?”

Sam stared at him, then at the fingers, then swatted his hand away with a huff. “No, thanks,” he muttered, before covering his mouth with his own hand and shooting a weak little glare at Dean, who at this point was fairly certain he would never be able to stop grinning, because Sammy’s attitude he missed so much was back, and it was making not cuddling the crap out of the kid extremely hard.

“Suit yourself.” He winked instead, then began his journey down and around the other’s body.

He started with Sam’s neck, kissing and licking at it until he was sure that every inch of skin had been tasted, before moving on to the shoulders, which he nibbled on and kissed plenty, all the while his hands were busy playing with the other’s belly. The body beneath him moved and arched sensually, head tilted back and hand muffling the delicious sounds that Sammy just couldn’t keep in. He blinked with lust-blown eyes when Dean removed both of their shirts, but then closed them and was back to making sweet noises as his chest got attacked by teeth. Dean kissed down his brother’s chest, all the way down, then licked into his belly button and nuzzled his tummy before kissing back up. He nipped at Sam’s collarbone, dipped his fingers between the ridges of the other’s ribs as he licked and stroked them, then his baby jerked under him, the effort with which he had to hold his voice back audible as Dean latched his mouth onto a nipple and suckled. He toyed with the other nipple using his fingers, pinching and tugging, rubbing it, while he flicked and circled the one in his mouth, rolled it between his teeth, teasing and sucking on it hard, before switching and exacting the same kind of sweet torture on the dry nipple.

When he was done with that, he trailed his hands down the other’s body and slowly removed his pants, glad that Sammy wasn’t one of those who slept with an underwear on. “So gorgeous,” he mouthed into his brother’s inner thigh, feeling Sam shiver, and smirked when he saw the other buck almost needily. Definitely needily. “My pretty baby,” he purred as he knelt between Sam’s legs, lifting one so he could leave a trail of kisses from his brother’s toes all the way up to his hip, then did the same to the other leg, before leaning down and nibbling on the sensitive skin of the other’s groin, drawing more of those addicting, sadly muffled sounds from him. Next time, they’d have to do this when John was gone, so Dean could listen to all of these lewd little moans Sam must have been making.

Both of them froze for a moment as their dad stirred in his sleep, but when it became evident that he was still asleep, Dean smirked and began lapping at his brother’s cock. That had Sammy’s hips jerking right away, the kid spreading his legs and grasping at Dean’s hair with his free hand. Chuckling deeply, he nuzzled the hard, hot flesh, holding his brother’s thighs apart as he dragging the tip of his tongue up and down the other’s erection, poking and swirling at the underside, before opening his mouth and sucking in the head, licking at and swallowing around it, suckling enthusiastically until Sam apparently couldn’t take it anymore and bucked up, pushing more of himself in Dean’s mouth, but he didn’t mind. Gradually sinking down on the searing flesh, he took his brother’s cock all the way into his mouth, feeling rather proud of himself for not gagging, but just then Sam bucked again, the tip of his cock bumping against the back of Dean’s throat, and there we go, he was gagging. He quickly relaxed, though, pulling back for a moment before taking the hard flesh in his mouth again, then began bobbing his head, trying to keep the sucking sounds to a minimum as he swallowed and suckled eagerly, tongue slip-sliding along the other’s cock, teasing the slit when he went back to just playing with the head. Sam whined, or at least emitted a sound resembling a miserable whine when he removed his lips from around the other’s cock and moved them to his balls instead, licking and sucking those for a while, then moved even lower, treading carefully as he swept his tongue over his brother’s hole.

He had already healed, obviously, but some scars remained, both physical and mental. Sam tensed slightly, so Dean stroked and massaged his thighs until he managed to relax a bit. They gazed at each other, Dean kissing the other’s thigh while never breaking eye contact, and after taking a long, deep breath, his brother squirmed a bit and lowered his head back on the pillow, which was his cue to continue. He waited a moment before sliding his hands to Sam’s ass and gingerly spreading his cheeks, then swallowed hungrily and ran the tip of his tongue over the delicate, puckering hole. The last time his baby brother had something in there, it left him bloody and nearly dead, and Dean was bent on making this experience as good and painless as possible, on changing how Sam thought about this part of sex, wanted him to enjoy it and not fear it. With excruciatingly slow drags, he licked the other’s entrance, traced it and lapped at it until he felt it was safe to enter, and then he slowly pushed his tongue inside. He was instantly enveloped in a tight heat, moving his tongue in there proving rather hard, but as he spread his brother’s cheeks a bit further, he managed to slide in deeper and curl his tongue. Sam didn’t react much at first, stayed still, but the more Dean licked and wriggled his tongue, the more the other squirmed, until he was pushing back, not-too-discreetly asking for more; and of course being the amazing big brother he was, he complied right away.

Since they didn’t have any lube, he made sure both Sam’s hole and his own finger was thoroughly wet before he carefully inserted the digit. It slid in easily despite how much the muscles were squeezing him, and he could feel his brother’s warmth even more like this, all around his finger which he began moving after a moment, curling and rubbing it against the other’s silky smooth flesh, glad he cut his nails just a few days ago. Sammy was reacting as quietly as he could, mainly using his body instead of his voice to convey the way he was feeling, which had to be a positive feeling, because he was arching his back almost erotically, thighs trembling the slightest bit as he spread them even more, and rolled his hips helplessly, as if coaxing the finger further into him. Chuckling silently, Dean sucked on another one of his fingers while twisting the one already in his brother, then planted a lingering kiss on the inside of Sam’s thigh before leaning forward, supporting himself on his elbow as he very slowly, meticulously pushed in the second finger, and when his brother gasped, he was right there to capture his lips and all the sounds that rolled past them.

“Does this hurt?” he asked, murmuring the words against the other’s mouth while moving the fingers inside him, making come-hither motions and turning them, sliding them in and out with short pushes and pulls, carefully working his baby brother open.

Sam gazed up at him with desirous hazel eyes glistening with adoration, and languidly snaked his arms around Dean’s back, digging his fingertips into the other’s skin as a coy little smile curled the corner of his lips. “No, it’s good. A bit uncomfortable, but it’ll get better…right?”

He returned his brother’s smile and nodded. “It’ll get so much better, Sammy,” he purred, kissing Sam’s smile, then ran his tongue along the other’s lips before plunging it inside, sealing his mouth with another kiss as he began moving the fingers faster, opening and closing them inside the tight heat. Sam jerked under him, hips rocking in rhythm with the thrusts of his fingers, while Dean never stopped kissing him, muffling his brother’s whimpers with his tongue and drinking the rest of the eager, pornographic sounds that poured from the other.

Gradually adding fingers to the ones wriggling and having the time of their life inside his brother, Dean fingered him until the digits moved with a delicate ease, until Sam’s hole was gaping and ready for more, until the kid has been rendered to a needy mess, his body practically begging to be fucked as it twisted yearningly on the mattress. Knowing that at this rate, his brother was going to start getting vocal if Dean didn’t do anything, he withdrew his fingers from Sam’s ass and his tongue from his mouth, then quickly crawled back and licked over the quivering, nice and open hole, wetting it generously, before tugging his pants down and spitting in his palm, slicking up his throbbing, impatient cock. He then positioned himself between the other’s legs, wrapping them around his waist, before leaning close and lining the head of his cock up with his brother’s waiting entrance, giving him a warning look, and when Sam, after taking a deep breath, nodded, Dean painstakingly breached the other’s hole and slipped inside.

He’s had sex before, he wasn’t a virgin. He knew how sex felt like. That being said, Dean had to furrow his brow and bite down on his lip so as to stop himself from groaning, for his brother’s tight hole sent a feeling of such pleasure through him he has never experienced before. It almost made him tremble, and when he opened his eyes he didn’t remember closing, he noticed that unlike him, Sam couldn’t control the onslaught of sensations and was in fact trembling like a puppy in the rain, mouth hanging open in a silent moan, a sound of pleasure—and hopefully not pain—so great it got stuck in his throat. And Dean wasn’t even all the way in.

“How…” he whispered, having to swallow and catch his breath. “How does it feel? Too much?”

Opening his own eyes and closing his mouth, Sam pulled Dean closer and clung to him like a little monkey. “It…kinda hurts,” he mumbled, but before Dean could’ve pulled back, he added, “but it’s fine. It’s not a bad pain. I can take it, I can take anything as long as it’s you giving it to me. And I know that you’ll make me feel good. Because this is different.” Sam smiled bashfully, leaning in to plant a small kiss on the other’s lips. “This is with someone I love.”

“I love you, too,” Dean said almost right away, after he was done looking at his brother with eyes full of undying love and affection. “And I will make this good, I promise you. The best thing you’ll ever feel, make you addicted to this.”

Sam’s smile widened. “Can’t wait.”

“Why wait?” He grinned with a wink, lowering himself all the way so their chests were pressing flush together, so that every part of their bodies were touching, connecting, intertwining, and then licked his brother’s neck and braced himself on his elbows, before inching the rest of his cock into the other’s hole.

Once he was all the way in, he waited for Sam to get used to the feeling and relax around him, then, knowing that both of them will probably be their loudest from now on, he pressed his lips against the other’s before beginning to move.

It felt as if his cock was on fire, as if he was dipping it in molted lava each time he moved, as if satiny flames were curling and enveloping him, slithering like alluring snakes that trapped his flesh in their unrelenting, sweet grip, pulsing around him and squeezing. His whole body thrummed with pleasure as he thrust in and out of his baby brother, as he left and entered the soothing warmth that felt so good, sort of cozy, that Dean never wanted to leave. He kept going back for more, unhurriedly, lazily rolling his hips like waves, like a calm ocean, while beneath him was a whole hurricane. Sam’s legs tightened around his waist as he squirmed, nails sinking into his flesh and chest gravitating toward Dean’s, as if he was being pulled up by an invisible string. It caused his brother visible effort to keep his voice in, which many times didn’t listen to him and pushed past his lips, but his soft moans and keens were always snatched away by Dean’s mouth that lingered above his brother’s, never went further than a few inches as they panted and mumbled incoherent words into each other’s skin.

They tried to keep the words and sounds to a minimum, since they weren’t alone, however that wasn’t so easy with all the passion flowing between them, both of them becoming more and more desperate for each other as they got lost in their own little world. Dean picked up the pace, his slow, long thrusts turning fiery and quick, a bit rougher, but judging from Sam’s increase in moans, he didn’t mind. The kiss that kept their sounds turned sloppy, with too much tongue and teeth, lips dragging wetly along skin as their voices tangled and merged together, the needy mewls and low groans, moans and sweet, mumbled curses seemingly coming from both of them at once. At one point, Dean knew he hit his brother’s prostate, because the kid all but screamed and raked his nails down the other’s back, the burn of it only riling him on, so after that he angled his hips to nail his baby’s sweet spot over, and over, and over again.

Bodies sticking together from sweat, moving together to a rhythm only they knew, after long minutes, they were both nearing their orgasms. Dean knew he was, because the fire melting him from the inside out had began gathering in his crotch, pooling in his belly and turning his thrusts more erratic than before, faster and harder, until he was fucking his little brother into the mattress, the bed that was starting to creak from their energetic movements; and he knew Sam was close, too, because the kid was reduced to a pile of limbs and sex under him, clinging and mewling, writhing and humping the air, desperately rocking back on Dean’s thick cock while bucking up and against his stomach, seeking friction for his own leaking erection. Selfishly, Dean wanted to drag this out for as long as he could, wanted to keep making love to his little brother until none of them could move anymore, but he also needed to take the consequences of a long sex into consideration, for example their father waking up and finding his sons in a rather intimate position. That couldn’t possibly end well, so reluctantly, he decided it was time to end this for now, and reached between them, wrapped his fingers around Sammy’s cock, and began to jerk him.

Immediately, his brother moaned loudly into his mouth and thrust into his fist, hips working overtime as Sam moved them back and forth, toward Dean’s cock and hand, and then it wasn’t long before he felt the other’s body being shaken by a violent shiver, moments before spurts of warm come landed on his stomach and hand, Sam coming with a miserable little whimper. That being his go ahead to let go as well, Dean kept stroking his brother’s cock in time with his thrusts, kept doing so until that roaring fire in his belly began clawing at his insides, demanding to be let out, and then he stopped, snapped his hips forward, and finally came, biting down on the other’s bottom lip as he emptied his load deep inside Sam, filling him with it and marking his lover as his forever like an animal mating its partner for life.

Panting heavily, Dean slumped on his brother’s body, probably crushing the poor thing, so he sluggishly rolled beside him, cock slipping out of the other, and he already missed the warmth. He cleaned his hand, licking the come off it, the taste not nearly as bad as he thought it’d be, then wrapped his arms around Sam and hugged him, smiling fondly when the kid snuggled into him.

“You came inside,” Sam mumbled into his neck after a while, when their breathing have turned back to normal.

“Mhm.” Dean nuzzled the other’s forehead, smirking when his brother pulled back and gave him a look.

“That’s unhygienic. And you just…left it in there,” he grumbled, a deep blush apparent on his cheeks.

Dean snorted lightly, kissing Sam’s blush. “I know. Don’t worry, we’re both clean. And anyway, you can easily get rid of it with a shower, so don’t sweat it,” he said with a teasing smirk on his lips, caressing his brother’s cheekbone with his thumb. “You totally love that it’s still in you, though, don’t you?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, then made some sort of incredulous sound before burying his face in his favorite place, the crook of Dean’s neck. “No,” he muttered from there, scooting even closer to the other and curling into him, then after a long moment, whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “Maybe.”

Letting out a sated, happy little sigh, Dean petted his brother’s hair. “All mine now, Sammy. Mine to love and protect, to keep forever,” he whispered, then closed his eyes and relaxed when he felt the other nod and hum softly, the last thing he felt before finally drifting off to sleep being Sam’s even, untroubled, peaceful breathing against his neck.

 


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being so short, but hey, it's an epilogue after all!

 

What he’s been through couldn’t even be called a rough patch. It was something much worse, something that had ultimately driven him to pour the contents of a bottle down his throat, to swallow the pills and simply wait for the death that never came the last time he wished for it. Living was a curse, it was an unwanted weight he had to carry with himself, and each morning, he woke up wondering why he was bothering with it in the first place. What was there to wake up to? What was there to keep living for? Just to spend another useless day cooped up in the motel, haunted by the memories that he couldn’t block out no matter how much he tried, to wither away? Nothing interested him anymore, not eating or moving, or living and breathing. He didn’t see a reason good enough he should keep doing them all for. Repetitive and dull, gray. Gloomy. Worthless. There was nothing left for him here, so of course he tried quitting. It’s not giving up if there’s nothing left for you to fight for, right?

And then he realized how big of a fool he was, because all this time, he had a guardian angel protecting him.

Dean was his big brother, his closest family. He was safe and home, he was warmth and protection, the kind of happiness that was just out of his reach. He was the air that filled Sam’s lungs, the blood that ran in his veins and kept his alive, saved his life twice already, and then a third time as well. He saved Sam from giving up. He saved Sam from letting go. He bathed Sam in light and love, in a new reason to keep going, and then he was finally waking up with the knowledge that he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone in this.

“Fuck, Sammy,” his big brother groaned breathily, one hand gripping the kitchen counter while the other was fisted in Sam’s hair, holding on.

He never thought he’d let anyone even close to his hair after what happened. Didn’t think he’d let many things done to him after that day, really. Feeling love was also something he thought of as impossible, but Dean was really good at proving him wrong, because Sam was madly in love, with a hand tugging on his hair, and on his knees, with a cock down his throat.

“Mmmh,” he answered sweetly, blinking up at his brother and breathing deeply through flared nostrils, his mouth too busy sucking on the searing flesh in it. Swallowing around the head that kept bumping against the back of his throat, he moaned eagerly, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks, successfully sucking Dean’s brains out of his dick, smiling when his brother’s hips jerked and his head fell back. He was getting better at this.

They’ve graduated from being brothers to lovers a month ago, and ever since then, they kissed or done more every single day. They didn’t do anything while John was next to them, agreeing that that one time was risky enough, and the thrill wasn’t worth getting caught, so they always waited until they were alone before engaging in some fun, sexual activities. For example now, since John’s been out on a hunt since yesterday morning, Dean had trapped him against the counter in hopes of fucking him against it, but being the skillful tease Sam discovered that he was, he managed to turn the situation around, and now it was Dean moaning Sam’s name, about to come from his talented tongue. When he first sucked his brother off, it was a rather awkward process, plus he was still a bit uneasy about the whole “putting a cock in his mouth” after the last one that had forced its way in there. But he soon warmed up to it, even came to enjoy it, almost as much as having Dean make love to him, because the ability to turn his badass big brother into a cursing and worshipping, begging mess by just a few swipes of his tongue was amazing.

Relaxing his throat muscles, Sam deepthroated the other, gripping his hips and blinking up at him with teary eyes, and when Dean looked down at him, face flushed and those plump, perfect lips parted, he knew his brother was close. So, while never breaking eye contact, he sucked harder and faster, mewling all lewdly while making obscene, loud sucking sounds, knowing Dean got incredibly turned on by those, and sure enough, soon the boy was groaning out Sam’s name and burying his cock in the other’s mouth, Sam gagging a little but staying in place and letting his brother come down his throat.

He swallowed the warm load, used to the bitter taste by now, before licking his lips and cleaning his brother’s pulsing cock with his tongue, then stood up and pressed a wet kiss on Dean’s chin. “So, what was that about makin’ me scream?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean ruffled his hair, then yanked him into a hot kiss, Sam whimpering when a hand found its way to his ass and groped it. “Oh don’t worry. That’s about to happen,” his brother purred against his lips, grinning wolfishly as his other hand slid down to join the one already squeezing Sam’s ass, fingers curling and beginning to fondle the flesh. “We both know that I don’t necessarily need my cock to make you scream, baby.”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, but then he wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck and nuzzled him, leaning back into the hands invitingly. “Hmm, I don’t know,” he said with a little grin of his own, nibbling on his brother’s jaw. “I think I’m gonna need some proof to believe that. Think you can provide me with some?”

“I’m full of them proofs, Sammy. I’ll be provin’ it to you for hours, if you want me to.” Dean kissed his forehead, then chuckled, Sam squeaking when he got scooped up into his brother’s arms and taken to the bed, smiling widely as a shower of soft kisses rained down on his face, and feeling so happy inside he could’ve burst when Dean smiled back, loving and doting.

What he’s been through couldn’t even be called a rough patch. But it was in the past, was only a memory rarely haunting him, because now he was happy and loved, cared for—now he had Dean.

And that’s all he’s ever needed.

 


End file.
